Starcrossed
by Roses-and-Cinnamon
Summary: !COMPLETE! They meet by chance only, are sworn enemies and on the brink of war with a third, even greater power. Yet somehow, they are drawn to each other. Against all odds, they fight for a future that will have to be paid for in their blood. Tristan/OC
1. Chapter 1

Starcrossed

Chapter One

_Tristan/OC_

_Usual disclaimers apply. Please review.  
_

Her own blood pounded loudly in her ears and her breath came in sharp, whizzing gasps. The forest whipped past her as she ran, only narrowly avoiding the many obstacles in her way. Branches whipped her across the face, the arms and left stinging scratches in their wake. From the burning sensation in the muscles of her legs, she knew she would not be able to maintain this pace much longer.

And still she heard the hoofbeats of the warhorse behind her, drawing ever closer, even as she tried to shake her pursuer off by changing direction all the time. If he caught her, she knew it would mean her death.

Finally, she skidded onto a small clearing and the hoofbeats trailed off in another direction. She stopped, desperately trying to catch her breath and shake off the numbness creeping up her legs.

As her breathing finally eased, she cast a look around the clearing.

And found herself staring at the point of an arrow.

The knight drew back the bowstring further and stepped out from the underbrush. His dark eyes surveyed the clearing quickly before returning to rest on her.

She couldn't contain a tired, humorless little chuckle as his warhorse came trotting out of the trees. Riderless.

In a gesture of defeat, she held her arms out from her body, palms facing up, to show that she would offer no resistance. Whether it would spare her life, she could not know. She had seen this knight before, the one with the dark marks on his high cheekbones and the braided hair. They called him Death among her people. He was the best fighter among the knights of the great wall, whether it be with his bow or the curved sword he carried on his back. They tried to avoid him, for to cross his path meant to die a swift death.

For the moment, though, he stayed his arrow.

They looked at each other for a long moment. She could only imagine how she would look to him.

Her blonde hair was matted with dirt, braided back, but now in horrible disarray. Blue woad stained her skin and dark tattoos marked her wrists and collarbones. His gaze lingered for a moment on the hunting knife at her hip and the quiver of arrows on her back. Her bow had been lost in the woods earlier during the chase.

The silence was unnerving, only broken by the occasional snorts and quiet whinnies of the horse.

Feeling her resolve crumble, she closed her eyes.

„If you're going to shoot me, then just do it, please."

His rough, deep voice sounded distinctly amused as he answered: „You're begging for death?"

She opened her eyes again. His face remained almost impassive, save for the small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. It was not a comforting sight.

„No", she answered. Her hands had started shaking.

He did not relax the bowstring. „What are doing here, south of the Wall?"

„Hunting", she replied evenly, though her heart pounded ever more loudly. „Better game here than in the North."

„What game? People?"

„Deer", she spat back at him. Now her entire torso was shivering, although it was a warm summer's night. „I am a hunter, not a warrior. Have no fear, Roman."

His expression changed from indifference to anger in a heartbeat.

„I am no Roman!" he growled.

„Then I am not your enemy! What reason do you have to kill me?" Her own voice sounded feeble in her ears and the derisive little smile once more curling his lips showed that he felt likewise.

„Doesn't take many reasons for me to kill a Woad."

He still had neither lowered the bow, nor released the arrow. She tried once more, her every heartbeat a reminder of how fragile life was.

„My name is Caillean."

He relaxed the bowstring a little and shook the shaggy dark hair out of his striking eyes. He had the beauty of a predator, she thought, not unlike the hawk one often saw with him.

„Do you think it matters to me to know the name of the person I kill?" he asked her, but there was a teasing edge to his soft growl.

„No", she replied, dropping her arms to her sides, „but perhaps you'll bury me. And I for one like to know the names of the people I lay in their graves. Just in case I should ever dig yours... what is your name?"

He lowered his bow and the relief made Caillean so weak-kneed that she almost fell to the ground.

His capitvating gaze, however, held her upright as if he had grasped her shoulder.

„Tristan", he answered after a moment of silence. „My name is Tristan."

„Tristan", she repeated, trying the name for herself. „A proud name, befitting a mighty warrior. Will you let me go, then?"

He took a few steps closer to her and it felt as if she was near a bonfire. Then he once more drew his bow and a moment later, an arrow thudded into the ground before her.

„Looks like I shot and missed, eh? Better run then."

Caillean hesitated a moment, then she bent down, pulled the arrow out of the ground and tucked it into her own quiver.

„I won't forget this, Tristan, knight of the Wall," she promised quietly. They shared another glance and he nodded once.

„Neither will I. Caillean."

She watched him as he turned away from her, mounted his horse and made to leave.

Before he disappeared into the darkness of the forest, he turned around and looked back at her over his shoulder. She raised her hand in farewell, and although he made no gesture in return, she knew in that moment that they would meet again.

_...to be continued... _


	2. Chapter 2

Starcrossed

Chapter Two

_Tristan/OC_

_Usual disclaimers apply. Please review._

_Fluff ahead. Think of it as a „calm before the storm" situation. Chapters will be longer as the story goes on. (Shorter chapters = more frequent updates)_

Contrary to popular belief, Tristan did not see the world as black and white.

While he could honestly say that his allegiance lay solely with his brothers, the other knights pressed into Rome's service, he had learned over the years that there were Romans who were not as bad as others, even a few downright decent ones.  
Pretentious bastards they remained, but still, there was no reason to hate them.

Then, of course, there was Arthur, but he did not count as Roman. Tristan would have laid his life on the line for his commander any day.  
Britons he did not much think about. They were there, they were easily scared and those he knew more closely, like Bors' lover Vanora, were generally nice people.

Woads, however, he had only ever considered enemies. He never saw any but when they were sneaking among the trees or running at him, brandishing weapons, so it had been easy so far. „Blue demons", Bors had called them, and that's what they seemed like, shrieking to high heavens, painted and clad only in furs and leather and an almost maniacal glint in their eyes. That's how Tristan had seen Woads, for the past fourteen years and six months. He had killed them without question.

Except for that girl a few days past. Scrawny thing, that one. Not beautiful, compared to some of the women at Badon Fort, and certainly not inspiring any protective urge in a man, what with the knife at her hip and the bow. And yet he had spared her life.

He mulled this over as he rode once more on patrol. The sun was beginning to set in the West and cast a golden hue over the thick foliage of the near forest. A soft wind caressed the branches and elicited a slight whisper, as if the plants knew of secret and were eager to tell him.

A rare, content smile spread on his face. He knew that the other knights, while loving him well enough, thought of him as a loner, and in truth, he did enjoy this peace and quiet. It made him feel as if he was quite alone on this earth and for once, there was no one to fight, no one to kill in the name of an empire he despised with all his being.

His hawk had yet to reappear. He had sent her soaring into the sky a while ago, and after circling over him a few times, she had swooped into the forest, presumably to catch her dinner.

Tristan's eyes scanned the sky once more, lingering for a moment on the clouds in the distance, painted red by dusk, like blood spreading on clean linnen. When he returned his gaze to the tree line, he saw her standing there.

She looked different, yet he recognized her at once. Her hair was unbound, tumbling down her back and blew softly in the breeze. Her skin was clean of blue dye and the simple dress she wore hid the markings that would otherwise have identified her as a Woad.

She did not look at him, but at his hawk, who he now spied sitting on a low branch. The bird eyed the girl curiously, or more likely, the piece of dried meat in her outstretched hand.

Her master's sharp whistle had her flying off the branch in an instant, landing softly on the leather guard on his arm.

Caillean followed the bird with her eyes, smiling slightly as Tristan came closer. His free hand rested on the hilt of his sword, next to his saddle, and his expression was guarded.

„Once again south of the Wall", he said as greeting. „You really enjoy pushing your luck."

She tugged on the skirt of her dress. Upon closer inspection, he could see that she had obviously travelled quite a distance through the forest in it. There were stains and tears around the hemline and it was too big for her, swallowing her bony figure in fabric.

„I'm even less of a threat today, aren't I? Just a simple Briton..."

„...stumbling through the forest in the middle of nowhere? Hardly." He dismounted, mindful of the hawk still perched on his arm. She flapped her wings, but kept her balance.

His gaze remained weary as he watched Caillean once more holding out the piece of meat tentatively.

Once more safely seated on her master's arm, the hawk eyed the meat with considerably greater interest, snatching it out of Caillean's fingers finally and gobbling it down.

Once she had finished, however, Tristan cast her in the air once more, which she commented with an indignant shriek.

Caillean smiled, but the mirth died at once as she saw the expression on the knight's face.

She sighed, dropping all pretense of jocoseness and meeting his eyes squarely. For a moment it seemed as if he could look right past her eyes into her soul. She shivered.

„What are you doing here, Caillean?" His soft accent made her own name seem beautiful to her ears. Yet she was once more reminded of the fact that this man was not only deadly, but had slain many of her people already.

„Just adding one more case of treason to my conscience by talking to you, I suppose", she answered quietly. „My sister lives here, at the fortress. She married the blacksmith four years ago. My father and brother haven't acknowledged her existence since, but she is after all my sister. We leave each other messages in the forest, to let each other know how we are doing. That is all."

His eyes narrowed in suspicion. „What kind of messages? Show me where."

Darkness was beginning to seep into the sky and already the faint outline of the moon could be seen through holes in the dense foliage as Caillean led Tristan into the forest. He had his sword in hand and kept his eyes open for any movement in the underbrush. They crossed the clearing where they had met a few days ago and then went just a little further.

The woods were quiet here, save for the chirruping of a small bird in the hazel thicket and the soft murmur of a clear little stream. A treestump sat prominently next to the brook, its base overgrown with moss and several mushrooms clinging to its sides like little gnomes with oddly shaped hats, poking their heads out of their windows to catch a glimpse at the intruders.

And there, on the flat surface of the stump, sat a little basket with three apples in it, a little wooden figure of a dog and a length of colored ribbon.

„It's what she left for me," Caillean said, her voice small and timid, quite unlike her earlier tone. As Tristan looked at her, he could see tears in her eyes and noticed for the first time that they were grey, like the sky before a storm.

He sheathed his sword and shook his head slightly.

„That's indeed treason," he said flatly, and Caillean laughed a little, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.

„What's to be my punishment, then?"

„You lose one of these." He picked up one of the apples, prompting her to laugh once more.

Silence fell between them again. Both felt an odd sort of peace, as fragile as a snowflake.

Out of impulse, she took his hand in both of hers, examined the narrow palm, the long fingers, calloused from wielding bow and sword for half his life. He allowed it, taking his own time studying her and trying to understand what it was that tempered his usual hatered and contempt for her people down to virtually nothing when it came to her.

Again he noticed that she was not beautiful, merely pretty in the way most young girls were pretty. Her hair, when clean, was the color of ripe wheat, her face was narrow and tanned from the sun. Long, pale lashes rimmed her eyes, casting fragile shadows onto high cheekbones. Her body was thin, but sinewy, whatever feminine endowments she might possess almost hidden in the folds of the overlarge dress.

„How many of my people have you killed with these hands?" she asked quietly.

„Many." She nodded once, the matter-of-fact tone of his answer apparently unsurprising to her.

„And you are going to kill more."

„Yes, probably."

„I should hate you then." She kept her eyes on his hand, her fingertips tracing the ridge of a small scar across his palm. He closed his fingers over hers.

„Mhm, you should," he agreed. Insanity, probably. Why else would they behave this way. Temporary loss of common sense. „Keep away from here and stay north, where you belong."

She nodded while threading her fingers through his. He put the apple down on the tree stump again and took her other hand.

Her fingers were cold and he could feel her shaking. With a reluctant sigh, he let go of her hands and met her eyes.

„You really should go. This cannot end well."

She was silent for a moment, cocked her head to the side thoughtfully and looked at him.

„You're right," she said softly. „Either of us might end up having to kill the other in any number of circumstances. But... do you hear that?"

Tristan listened closely. The wind rustled in the trees, the little stream splashed softly against a few pebbles. An owl hooted in the distance.

He shook his head. „I hear nothing."  
Caillean smiled. „Neither do I. If this is to be a stolen moment, Tristan, knight of the Wall... you are not allowed to think about anything outside of it. So unless you hear your brothers' war cry right now..."

„That's childish," he interrupted her, wondering for a moment about her age. Around twenty, he guessed.

She shrugged, any hurt she might feel hidden beneath an indifferent air. „Then leave."

He took a step back from her, picking up his apple and turning it thoughtfully his fingers.

„Come here often...?"

The question made her smile sadly. „Once every ten days, if I can."

„Hm."

He turned away from her, but after a few steps, he stopped and looked back.

Something Bedivere, his best friend on this earth, had once told him, came back to him in that moment. They had been talking about Bors and Tristan had called him foolish for taking lover and siring children when there was no guarantee he would even live to see them born. Bedivere had disagreed.

_Rome took us from our homeland, from our families, put swords in our hands and told us to risk our lives for their affairs. They might tell us who to kill, Tristan, but I'll be damned if I let them tell me who to hate or love. We only have this one life, and chances are our lives won't be as long as some. So Bors is right in living it now, not waiting for some distant day of freedom he might never see._

As on their first meeting, Caillean had remained at the same spot, watching him leave with an unreadable expression in her stormy eyes, her left hand raised in a gesture of farewell. This time, however, he tossed the apple aside, turned around and strode back to her.

„Stolen moment, eh?" he inquired. „Not only a traitor, but also a thief..."

And then he kissed her.

_...to be continued... _


	3. Chapter 3

Starcrossed

Chapter Three

_Tristan/OC_

_Usual disclaimers apply. Please review. _

_Two chapters in one day. Go me. If no one minds, I'll just continue with the shorter chapters in favour of more frequent updates. Some fluff, last to be had for a while. _

As on their first meeting, Caillean had remained at the same spot, watching him leave with an unreadable expression in her stormy eyes, her left hand raised in a gesture of farewell. This time, however, he tossed the apple aside, turned around and strode back to her.

„Stolen moment, eh?" he inquired. „Not only a traitor, but also a thief..."

And then he kissed her.

They fit against each other perfectly. His arms came around her waist, holding her tight, just as hers wrapped around his neck.

His kiss was befitting his personality: direct and to the point, no butterfly wings brushing rose petals or some such nonsense, just the insistent pressure of a warrior's lips on those of a woman, his beard tickling her chin, his tongue gently but firmly demanding entrance to her mouth. She obliged happily, grinning slightly against his lips before surrendering to his embrace.

After several long moments, they broke apart. Words failed Caillean as she looked into his eyes, for once not guarded, but quite simply content, and she could almost imagine the boy he had been once.

His hands trailed up her back, his fingers threading through her hair and finally coming to rest on her shoulder blades.

She felt strange in his arms, as if she knew everything about him and yet nothing at all. A part of her still screamed that this man had killed her people, on Rome's orders or not, but she for the moment, she stubbornly refused to listen.

In the distance, they heard someone shouting Tristan's name. He looked at her, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear.

„Our stolen moment is over, hm?"

She nodded sadly. No further words were spoken. This time, he did not turn back as he walked away swiftly towards the edge of the woods.

„Tristan!" Galahad yelled his name again, loudly and anxiously, sending a squirrel back up a tree in fright. The young knight had dismounted next to Tristan's horse and now held both animals' reigns, while his eyes scanned the landscape apprehensively.

Whatever flippant answer might have been on the tip of Tristan's tongue, it died the instant he saw the expression on Galahad's face.

A moment ago, he had been telling himself that some manner of peace was, after all, possible, and already fate was cursing him for a fool.

„There you are..." Galahad's relief at seeing the scout alive was palpable.

„What happened?" the older knight asked shortly, although he could almost guess it.

„It's Lamorak. He is dead."

…

Silence lay heavy on the assembled knights as they buried their fallen comrade the next day, laying another friend to rest in foreign soil. Somehow, it hurt even worse that this was Lamorak. He had been one of the kindest men any of them had ever known, an eternal optimist who always spoke of home with a certainty as if he'd be back there any day. Now he would never return, never again see the plains of Sarmatia, the oceans of grass, the endless sky.

Many of those assembled around the freshly dug grave were only still alive because Lamorak had been there when they needed him. Lancelot would not have seen his twentieth birthday without the brave knight being buried just now. Bedivere, who stood at the foot of the grave, silent tears running down his stony face, owed it to Lamorak that he had only lost a hand six years ago, and not his head.

As Arthur thrust Lamorak's sword deep into the earth to mark the knight's final resting place, Tristan let his eyes wander over all the other swords in the ground, connecting a name and a face with each of them.

Cei.

Parcival.

Erec.

Yvain.

Medraut.

All of them had desired nothing more than to go home and find some peace and all of them had died before their time.

Tristan found himself thinking of Caillean.

_Perhaps you'll bury me. And I for one like to know the names of the people I lay in their graves._

…

The continuous rasp of the whetstone was a soothing noise, blocking out all but the most basic thought, he discovered. A blade had to be clean and sharp. Very basic, very easy to grasp.

_Shhh..._

_Shh..._

_Shhh..._

„Tristan, talk to me!"

Bedivere's voice startled him so badly that he almost sliced open his hand with his own sword. Disgruntled, he looked up at the tall man standing in the doorway of the tack room.

„'m busy," he growled, but the other knight was having none of it. When he tried to turn back to his work, Bedivere simply took the whetstone from his hand.

„I'd be careful if I had only one more hand to lose," he warned, but then he laid aside his weapon and got up from the bale of hay he had been sitting on. „What do you want?"

Bedivere tossed the whetstone onto a folded blanket on the ground. His narrow face was set in a worried frown.

„Tristan, what is wrong? You've hardly spoken since Lamorak's funeral. We all miss him and grieve his death, but it's been days. Not that you're usually talkative, but this is odd, even for you."

His first instinct was to deny that anything was out of the ordinary, to take refuge in sarcasm, but then he realised that he had no strength left for that. Besides, this was Bedivere, who knew him better than anyone and whom he could never fool.

He turned away from him, running his hand over the smooth leather of a saddle, neatly placed on its peg. While Bedivere waited patiently, Tristan cast around for words.

„I'm not... I don't like talking about these things, you know...?" he began haltingly. „Is it enough for you if I say that I forgot for a moment how close we all are to death? And just then, Lamorak fell. Lamorak, of all people!"

He closed his eyes, inhaling the scent of leather, hay and horses. After a moment, Bedivere placed his hand on Tristan's shoulder. No further words were spoken, but it would not have been necessary either way. Those two, brothers in everything but blood, had never needed many words to understand each other.

…

Caillean knelt at her brother's bedside and watched him sleep. They had given him willow bark tea to numb his pain and something else to make him rest, but for her, there was no rest to be had.

She softly stroked his light brown hair and watched his face relax into almost childlike innocence.

He had to survive, he simply had to! The healer said that there was no cause for pessimism, but he had not offered much hope, either.

Only when his face blurred before her eyes did she notice that she was crying.

„Oh Cædmon..." she whispered, her voice barely audible. „I am so sorry..."

Her eyes strayed to the bandage around her brother's torso, stained red with blood. It was a strange sight, red spots upon white, like red poppies blossoming in snow. She could not help but wonder if he had received this near fatal blow while she had been in the arms of his enemy.

And yet... and yet... Tristan.

Her thoughts could not stray from him for longer than a few moments. Whenever she shut her eyes, she saw his face before her, saw him gaze at her with those captivating eyes, half shadowed behind the locks of his hair, saw his handsome face, the dark tattoos on his cheekbones, the small smile on his lips, the silver flecks in his beard. Tristan.

Shame flooded her when she realised that, upon first hearing that a knight had been killed, she had felt nothing but relief that it couldn't have been him.

Her senses seemed to have heightened unbearably. The air in the hut felt stifling, the furs too scratchy and every log bursting in the fire sounded to her like the crack of a whip.

Now, as she watched over her ailing brother, her thoughts wandered south once more and she wondered whether Tristan was grieving.

…

Ten days had passed and both Caillean and Tristan had decided not to return to that place in the forest. It was too difficult to even try, they both thought.

And yet, surprising even themselves, when dusk fell on the tenth day, they found themselves near the small creek by the tree stump, as if their feet had carried them there despite their convictions.

Tristan felt foolish. He stood there, watched the setting sun through the leaves and listend to the slight rustling of a forest preparing for nighttime. He did not expect her to come, hoped, in fact, that she had more common sense than he did. And yet, he heaved a quiet sigh of relief when he heard approaching footsteps, too light to belong to any man. He turned his head towards her.

Caillean had bound her hair with the ribbon her sister had given her. Her dress fitted her a little better than the previous one and she, too, stopped dead in her tracks and exhaled when she spotted him.

They both started walking towards each other at the same time, stopping only when they were nearly touching.

She saw the grief in his eyes and it pierced her like a sharp needle right through the heart. How she would ever cope if he were to fall, she did not know. Something about him cut through her like a blade, leaving a scar no time would ever erase, even if this was the last time they would see each other.

After a moment of silence, Tristan reached out and crushed her to his chest. She fisted her fingers in his hair and closed her eyes tightly.

„Promise me something," he whispered roughly. „If this is to be stolen time, let us not talk of war." She drew back a little. A strange feeling pooled in her stomach, a sweet, burning sensation that made her laugh and cry at once. She thought briefly of Cædmon, still warding off death at every turn, and once more felt the fragility of life.

„Fine," she agreed, her hands slipping from his shoulders to the fastenings of his leather jerkin, „in fact, we need not talk at all."

His eyes widened for a moment as her meaning sunk in. Tristan was by no means prude and he had had his fair share of experience with women, but none had been so open about her desire unless she wanted coins in return. He hesitated for a moment. Then his thoughts strayed to Lamorak, who had not known at dawn that he would not live to see dusk.  
Casting his doubts aside, he allowed her to help him out of the leather garment before reaching down to gather up the hem of her skirt. His lips caressed hers in tender kisses, until they had to break apart in order for him to pull the dress over her head.

As her body was slowly revealed to him, he thought back on his first impression of her. No, she was not beautiful. Right then, in that moment, she was breathtaking. He lifted her in his arms and then laid her down on his cloak, with soft green moss as their pillow.

…

Afterwards, he fell asleep on his side next to her, one arm curled protecively around her waist, the other one cushioning her head. For Caillean, however, sleep was the furthest thing from her mind. He had not been her first lover, and yet she had never known that being with a man could be like this, could feel so right. Tears gathered in her eyes, but not from any physical pain. Her mind, still reeling from pleasure, kept inventing elaborate fantasy scenarios of just how they might manage to stay together after all, each one increasingly unlikely.

The bitter truth was, that they were enemies in every other place but this one. There would be no happy ending, no sudden peace between their people, no bright and glorious future for them and the children she would never bear him.

„Tristan..." she said softly, her voice a strangled whisper, „why do you tug so at my heart, and yet I know next to nothing about you...?"

He stirred slightly, yawning and stretching like a well-fed cat. Then his gaze locked with hers and he propped himself up on one elbow.

„Will I see you again?" he asked, his throat still scratchy from sleep. She leant forward and kissed him gently, a world full of promise in the caress of her lips, but she could not bring herself to answer.

…

The grief over Lamorak's death still dampened his spirits, but over the next few days, Tristan coulnd't help but notice that the world seemed a little brighter to him. For once, he understood Bors' good humour, for once he found himself laughing at Lancelot's antics when he tried to woo every barmaid in the tavern.

Dawn mostly found him at the wall, his hawk perched on his arm, his eyes looking far into the distance. The Badon Fort seemed so small, now that there was so much life to live, so much feeling where before there had been nothing but daily struggle to live one more day that would bring him closer to home. For the first time, he felt a glimmer of affection for this dreary island, and the notion began to take root in his heart – tentatively, mind you – that this land might just become home for him.

Bedivere noticed the changes in his friend, but chose not to ask, until Tristan was ready to tell him.

However, the one-handed knight also noted the brief look of unease when Arthur led his men to safely escort a Roman caravan until they were well south of the wall.

Midday came and went, the caravan continued on its way peacefully and the knights started to relax a little. Hardly ever did the Woads come this far south and on a fine day such as this, their minds strayed to more pleasurable pursuits than fighting.

Then, suddenly a shrill piercing warcry rent the air and the drivers toppled of the carts, pierced with arrows.

„Woads!" Tristan yelled, spurring his horse to a gallop and yanking the bow out of its scabbard. He turned his horse sharply, using only his legs to guide the well-trained mare, notched the first arrow and let fly.

Their attackers came pouring from the nearby cluster of trees, from the shrubs lining the street and from a narrow ditch further away. A quick glance around put his estimate to about twenty warriors, with a few archers hidden in the trees.

The other knights had drawn their weapons. Galahad had jumped from his horse onto one of the carts, using the stacked up cargo like a shield and firing his arrows with exact precision at those fighters still further ahead.

Bors, Gawain and Lancelot had dismounted, dispatching their enemies on the ground, the former two with a great deal of yelling and brutal energy, the latter in an elegant and no less deadly dance, wielding his twin swords as if they were extensions of his arms.

Arthur and Dagonet both still remained on their horses, using both their speed and the longer reach of their weapons to their advantage, and Bedivere... where was Bedivere?

Tristan shot two more arrows, felling another couple of attackers swiftly, before swinging one leg over his horse's neck and dismounting quickly. He drew his sword and looked around again for Bedivere.

Instead, he saw Caillean. When their eyes met, she almost dropped her bow. Gone was the sweet young woman he had loved on the soft moss, gone was the gentle girl who'd fed his hawk from her hand. In her place was a warrior, skin stained once more with blue dye, fingers closed tightly around a bow, drawing back the string...

He could not even move. A memory crashed down around him, something he should have realised earlier.

_I for one like to know the names of the people I lay in their graves._  
This girl was no hunter. They were still staring at each other, even as she lowered the bow, pressed her lips together tightly and ducked back into the trees.

Tristan did not know how long he had been standing there. Although it felt as if it had been forever, it couldn't have been more than a moment.

„Tristan, look out!" Bedivere appeared at his side suddenly. The sounds of battle crashed over him once more like a wave against a cliff, as the numbness fell off of him. He turned, tried to see what it was Bedivere was warning him against, but it was too late. His friend flung himself in front of Tristan and two arrows thudded into his chest.

Tristan caught him as he fell, bedding Bedivere's head in his lap.

The battle around him was over, the surviving Woads retreated. Tristan paid no attention to that. Bedivere's breath was coming in short, laboured gasps and a faint trickle of blood dripped from the corner of his mouth.

„Don't do this to me," Tristan implored his friend, his voice breaking like thin ice. „Don't you dare die! We're supposed to go home, damn you... together!"

He was only remotely aware that the others had gathered around them, hardly even felt Gawain's hand on his shoulder.

Bedievere smiled, a mere quirk of bloody lips.

„I'll be home very soon." His voice was very quiet, each word riding on a painful exhale. „'s good to die for someone you love and..." He could not finish, dying right there on the street, having paid for Tristan's life with his own.

Suddenly, the world was a bleak and dreary place once more.

_...to be continued..._


	4. Chapter 4

Starcrossed

Chapter Four

_Tristan/OC_

_Usual disclaimers apply. Please review. I mean that. ;) _

Tristan stared at Bedivere's face, now slack, devoid of life, and already the face of a stranger. Slowly, he reached up and closed his eyes, sliding the limp lids shut over the unseeing green orbs, before letting go of the body completely.  
„Tristan..." Arthur made a move as if to lay a hand on his shoulder as Gawain had done, but at the fierce glare the scout shot both, they withdrew their hands. He got to his feet, sheathed his sword and picked up his bow. The others eyes him wearily, and Lancelot was the first to grasp what he was doing.  
„Don't do this", the handsome knight implored him, „you won't bring him back to life by running off to get killed."  
Tristan turned to look at them all, take in their expressions of grief, anger, sadness, but in none of them did he find the rage and hatred that was clawing at his insides. Yes, they had all lost brothers before. But this was Bedivere. And by the gods, he would not rest until he had washed the blood of his friend from his hands with that of his killers. The scout locked eyes with his commander.  
„Let me go, Arthur. Do it and I will not have to disobey you."  
Arthur hesitated. His gaze wandered from Bedivere's body to the rest of his knights and he finally nodded curtly.

„Go, but know this: if you're not back by dawn tomorrow, we will go looking for you."

…

He moved swiftly through the forest, like a predator on the prowl. The tracks of the running Woads was easy enough to read for someone with as much experience as he: Crushed leaves, broken branches, footprints in soft moss. All exhaustion from the battle had left him, rage replenishing his energy better than any amount of rest ever could.

His prey moved quickly, eager to get back north, but they did not know they were being chased, or they would be running faster. Especially if they knew who it was that was chasing them.

A feral smile turned his thin lips upward.

He stopped, closed his eyes for a heartbeat and listened. They were there, ahead of him, their movements through the underbrush sounded like a strong gust of wind. By his estimate, only five had survived. Those were not unbeatable odds...

His eyes snapped open again. There was movement coming towards him, swift feet, light tread. He drew his bow, knowing who he would be aiming at before she even stepped from the bushes.

Caillean skidded to a halt, her hands thrown up in a gesture of surrender, as she found herself staring once more at a notched arrow.

Tristan took in her appearance, more fierce than on their first meeting. The woad paint on her skin was smeared with blood and her hair had come lose from its braids, a tangled mass tumbling over her shoulders.

„Tristan..." For some reason, the tension in her shoulders eased as she recognized him. „Thank the gods, you are alive."

He almost laughed as he realized that she did not know what had happened, she had turned away after seeing him in the thick of battle. Lowering the bow and returning the arrow to the quiver, he nodded.

„I'm alive."

She came closer, relief spreading over her face.

„Ruadh and Morfrann said that they had aimed their parting shots at you, but didn't know whether they'd killed you... I'm ridiculously glad that they didn't!"

The scout shook his head slightly and held his hand out to her. Caillean hesitated for a moment, but then she placed her fingers in his and allowed him to pull her closer. Holding her at arm's length, he let his gaze roam over her once more.

„You're their scout," he finally stated, „that's what brought you south. Not your sister. And now? What lie did you tell them about turning back?"

A muscle in her jaw twitched, betraying her nervousness. Still, she met his glare defiantly.

„I told them that I wanted to make sure we weren't followed," she hissed. „And since you're here, it was a prudent measure!"

Caillean felt that something was wrong, very wrong. It hung between them like a foul stench permeating the air. She was no novice at reading people, but this man was an enigma to people who knew him much better than she did. During all three of their encounters, vastly different though they had been, she had learned nothing about him that could help her now, she realized.

Fear crept up on her, the longer he remained silent, sizing her up with piercing hazel eyes, the only things alive in a face otherwise as still as carved stone. She should not have turned back.

„Don't look at me like that!" she finally burst out. „How could I have told you the truth, you would have killed me! I wish there was nothing between us, but there is, no matter who we are and what we do, isn't there? Tristan, please..."

She moved closer to him, right up against him, laying a hand on his cheek, her fingertips ghosting over his tattoos.

„I don't know what it is I feel, but I do feel something for you, despite everything. It was horrible, thinking that you might have been killed..."

He turned his face into the caress. His beard tickled her wrist as he brushed a kiss onto her palm.

„But they didn't kill me...," he whispered and gently laid his hand over hers on his cheek.

„...they killed my best friend." And he snapped her wrist with a jerk of his hand.

Her scream echoed through the forest and she staggered back, clutching the broken limb to her chest and bit her lip to stop her cries of pain.

Tristan grasped her by the back of the neck, his hand fisting in her hair, and yanked her closer again.

„Go ahead and scream," he snarled, „bring them back here and save me the trouble."

Bolts of agony shot through her, as the broken bones were rudely jostled and she thought she might be sick.

„How many friends have you killed, eh?" she spat at him, her left hand fumbling for the dagger at her hip. „How many mothers, husbands, lovers...?"

„Not nearly as many as I'm going to kill", he promised her coldly and let go of her.

She tried to take a swing at him, but he caught her hand easily, retaliating with a straight punch to her face. There was the sickening sound of breaking cartilage and Caillean crashed to the ground, blood spurting from her nose. He stood over her, his breathing hardly elevated and there was still no other expression on his face but utter cold. She tried to crawl away from him, her head spinning with pain, but then they both froze.

There was movement in the trees, swift footsteps, coming ever closer.

Her companions had heard her scream and were coming for her.

The feral smile was back on Tristan's face and he drew his curved sword, the hiss of the blade like a whisper of approaching death. In that moment, Caillean knew that none of them would make it out of the woods alive, unless...

Mustering what courage, strength and energy remained to her, she grasped her dagger firmly and launched herself off the ground, sprang at him, the blade aimed for his throat. It never even got close, as he turned towards her, blocking her thrust with one arm and hitting her across the face with the hilt of his sword with the other.  
She collapsed once more, darkness swirling at the outer edge of her awareness, closing in fast. The last thing she saw were her four companions breaking through the bushes in an attempt to get to her. She fainted.

…

Darkness had fallen. There was no time and place more peaceful and serene than a grove at nighttime. An owl hooted, squirrels darted down one tree and up the next. The moon was almost full and the stars shone brightly in the sky, like fireflies frozen forever over a vast black lake.

However, there was a strange smell in the air, one that bespoke danger and suffering. It hung over the little clearing like a poisonous fume, like mist over the meadow.

Caillean blinked as all this filtered slowly into her consciousness. It was hard to draw breath through her broken nose, her cheekbone throbbed and the pain from her broken wrist intensified as soon as she started thinking about it.

As she turned her head, the first thing she saw was an arrow sticking in the ground next to her face. She recognized the fletching, she had one such arrow already...

_...shot and missed..._

The memory returned and Caillean bolted upright. Dizziness almost made her fall again, pain flared as she put pressure on her wrist by accident and she took deep, gulping breaths to fight back the urge to vomit.

The stench was one of blood and death. There, sprawled on the ground, were four bodies.

Ruadh, Morfrann, Hywel and Cynyr. Brave boys, but foolish. And dead. Judging by the way they lay, they had each lived no longer than a few moment after crashing onto the clearing, intent on her rescue.

Caillean threw back her head and screamed, shrieking her sorrow to the sky.

…

No one said a word to him after Tristan returned to Badon Fort at dawn, covered in more blood than before, no one made a move to stop him as he went straight to his room.  
No one forced him to speak at Bedivere's funeral either, as he watched the body of his friend being lowered into the ground. They had been of one tribe, only a few years apart in age, and they had been through everything together. Tristan had been there when Bedivere vomited after his first battle, his then-fourteen year old eyes unaccustomed to bloodshed, Bedivere had been there when Tristan's first horse was killed, the one that had carried him from his homeland, and he had not scolded him for his tears. They had confided in each other after their first nights with women, they had been each others caretaker after one of them got wounded, sick or simply plastered. And now that someone was gone, and Tristan was not quite sure how to go on.

After the funeral, he kept to himself even more than usual. The others could see him on the training grounds, riding out on patrol, with only his hawk for company, or passing them in the hallways, but he never spoke to any of them, and they knew better than to pester him.

Days passed, weeks passed, and finally, after almost two months, he suddenly came to the tavern. He said not a word of greeting, but the others exchanged a short grin. Dagonet jabbed his elbow at Galahad to make room and the young knight almost toppled off the bench, grinning eagerly. Gawain handed Tristan a mug of ale.

Lancelot smirked. „I'm so glad you decided to join us, Tris. We need your opinion. That girl there..." He shot a not very inconspicuous look at a buxom young woman with dark, curly hair, who promptly returned that look with a saucy wink. „Is she or is she not much too pretty for Gawain?"

Tristan looked the girl up and down, shrugged and took another swig of ale. „Yeh... she's alright. Too pretty for you, though."

As the others laughed and Lancelot pretended to sputter in outrage, Tristans lips curled up in a small smile.  
Strange. Life did indeed go on.

…

„Your wrist is healing well, is it not?" Merlin asked, touching the young woman's forearm tenderly. Then his gaze swept to her face and he sighed slightly. There had been nothing they could do for the nose, except try to set it in way that allowed for her to breathe. It was still noticeably crooked, however.

„It is," Caillean replied, taking her arm back and tugging the sleeve of her tunic down over it, „but I stand by my request. I will keep an eye on the Saxons for you, or do whatever you like, but do not send me south of the Wall. I will not face the knights ever again if I can help it."

The Woad leader's eyes searched her face and his throaty voice remained calm and measured, despite her defiance.  
„I have known you and your brother from the day you were born", he began slowly, „and while I know you took up fighting with us to be near Cædmon, I had thought you, too, believed in what we fight for."

This talk had been long coming, ever since the funeral of the four men Tristan had killed, but Caillean suddenly felt cornered, despite her previously thought of arguments.

„I do believe in this cause... and I don't want to leave Cædmon alone in this, but I have my reasons for not wanting to go near the knights again. And it is not cowardice."

She took a deep breath, thankful that they were having this discussion in Merlin's hut, alone and removed from the noisy ears of his council. Far away from Cædmon, who, if he knew, would never look at her the same way again.

„I... know... one of the knights. Their scout." She looked up at Merlin hesitantly. From the way his eyes widened, she could see that he'd understood the special emphasis she had placed on the word „know".  
„You love this man?"

„No," she answered swiftly. Whatever there was between her and Tristan, or whatever there had been, it had not been love. Love was not born out of blood and war and hatred. Lust, perhaps, sprinkled with something she had no name for, and on her part fascination with the enigmatic man, so foreign to her in both charakter and appearance. „No," she repeated, „I don't love him. But I cannot swear that I would be able to kill him if I had to. And that would make me a liability."

Merlin pondered her words for a while. The smoke from the fire, the scent of herbs and the heat made the air in the hut stifling and Caillean longed to leave it.  
Finally, Merlin nodded once. „I accept your reasoning, Caillean, and I will keep this between us. Rest here, until you are fully healed. We will find you a new task then."

She nodded, a grateful smile on her lips that did not quite reach her eyes, and left the hut.

Outside, she took in deep gulps of air. A hawk circled over the village and a small, lonely part of Caillean wished that maybe it was Tristan's. It would be the only thing of him she'd ever see again. Life had to go on.

_...to be continued..._


	5. Chapter 5

Starcrossed

Chapter Five

_Tristan/OC_

_Usual disclaimers apply. Please review. Did I mention that reviews make me write faster? They are like fuel for a car. (11 Alerts, only 8 reviews. Hmmm...) ;) _

The hawk was back. She had seen it circling over the forest when she arrived, and sure enough, the bird had joined her among the trees a scant few moments later. They were staring at each other, as if they were sizing each other up. Caillean couldn't help but feel that the bird wasn't too impressed with her. There was no more doubt in her mind that it was Tristan's. It looked like his and it seemed to be used to humans. Besides, she mused, while the hawk finally picked the piece of meat from her fingers, she was, against her own advice, once more on the wrong side of the wall.  
„One of these days you're going to tell him about me, aren't you?" she asked the hawk. „So he can come and finally shoot and hit me."  
The bird gave no comment on the matter, simply gobbled down the meat and eyed her hand curiously. Since there was no more food to be had, she took off into the sky again.  
Caillean followed her ascent into the clear sky with her eyes, longing for a moment to just be able to take off and fly away herself. It would be nice to have that kind of freedom and that sense of not beholden to anyone.

„I cannot believe you are making me do this!"

The exasperated voice of a woman disturbed her little fantasies of soaring through thin air and brought her rather harshly back to the ground. She sighed and looked at her sister, who in turn was casting anxious looks around as though the forest might bite her.

„You've become really tame since your marriage, Eivlin," Caillean observed dryly and hopped down from the treestump she had been sitting on. „I don't remember the woods scaring you that much."

„It's not the woods that are upsetting me, it's you!" Eivlin snapped at her. „It's treason, that's what it is! If anyone finds out I'm even talking to you..."

„Someone knows!" Caillean interrupted her. „Or at least, someone knew. Anyway, I'm not asking you the forts defenses, or the watchword for the gates. I just want to know how my sister is." She pulled an apple from a pouch on her belt and started tossing it from one hand to the next.

Eivlin arched her eyebrow and crossed her arms in front of her chest. Even though their manner of dress was vastly different, in that moment the two women looked very much alike. Eivlin, like their brother Cædmon, had light brown hair, rather than blond, but she had the same grey eyes as Caillean, and although she was significantly rounder in figure since the birth of her second child, she had the same narrow bone structure as her sister. Not to mention the same piercing stare.

„You just want to know how you're sister is," she repeated, a sarcastic smile making her lips twitch, „well, you're sister would be better, if she knew why she had to give you weekly updates on the goings-on with the knights. They are all fine, by the way. Last I saw them, they were heading to the tavern to celebrate."

The apple tossing took up speed and a small frown creased Caillean's forehead.  
„Hm, what would they have to celebrate? There have been no battles recently, and that means no victories...?"

„From the talk I heard, they are... oh, give me that!" Eivlin snatched the apple in mid-toss and glared at her sister. „They are celebrating that their terms of service is almost up. Apparently, a messenger arrived and announced that Rome is going to be sending them their discharge papers soon."

Bereft of her apple, Caillean took to twirling a strand of hair around her fingers. When she spoke again, it sounded as if she were merely talking to herself.

„So the knights will be leaving soon. Rome will be leaving. That could mean that it's going to be very peaceful or very bloody very soon."

Eivlin wrapped her arms around herself as if she were cold. „What do you think more likely?"

Her younger sister shrugged and lifted one corner of her mouth to a small smile. „Knowing Britain and the luck of the Britons... probably the latter." Seeing the worried look her sister cast her, she put an arm around her shoulders. „Don't worry. We will keep our eyes open, Cædmon and me, and we will make sure you and your babes stay safe."

„I'm worried about you," Eivlin replied and heaved a deep sigh, „always out there in danger. Why don't I lend you some dresses and you come with me! You'd blend right in, nobody would recognize you! Well, apart from Sir Tristan, but I'm sure he doesn't mean you any harm..."

Caillean rubbed the bump on her nose thoughtfully. „Actually, I'm pretty sure that he does."

…

The remains of the little fishing village were a sorry sight. Houses and huts lay in smoldering ruins, everything built by man had been torn down and the puddles on the muddy ground were red with blood. No man, woman or child had survived the beastly onslaught of their attackers.

The knights remained silent. They had all seen bloodshed in their years of service, but this was a sight unprecedented. The quiet crackle of the flames, the footfalls of the horses and the creaking of leather were the only sounds. They all strained their ears while riding slowly through past the ruins, hoping to hear any sounds that might lead them to a survivor.

„Oh God..." Arthur brought his horse to a halt and stared at the village square. Lancelot closed his eyes and Galahad looked as though he might be sick.  
Floral decorations lay trampled into the ground, a pig on a spit had burned to charcoal, a small group of musicians lay slain over their instruments.  
The entire village population had been here, and they had all been killed.

They dismounted, leaving the horses behind as they moved among the dead and tried to determine what had transpired here.

„A wedding," Gawain ground out, as he and Tristan stopped to examine three bodies laying close together, „this was a wedding."  
Tristan nodded, looking down at the young girl. She had worn a crown of flowers and berrys on her blonde hair and her hand clutched that of her intended, even in death. Somehow, he was almost glad that her eyes were blue.

Bors and Arthur joined them.  
„They spared no one," Bors said, his usually boisterous voice very quiet for once. He seemed stunned. „No one. They even killed the children."  
Arthur's face was pale, grim and determined. They had seen this look on his face countless times. It signaled the moment something became more than duty to him. He took these things personal and he would not let them slide.  
„I want to know what happened here. A group of men large enough to wreak this kind of havoc can't have disappeared without a trace!"  
Tristan shook his head. „Ships," he said, nodding at the small harbour of the fishing village. „They land, kill whoever they see, take whatever they want and head out to sea again. Virtually untraceable."  
„That's a lot of effort, though," Gawain added. „If Tristan's theory is true, they'll be attacking up and down the coastline to even make it worth their trouble."

Arthur nodded. „I'll be sending Galahad south down the coast, to see if there've been other attacks and warn the people. Tristan, I need you to go north."  
The scout nodded and turned back to his horse at once. The sight of the dead bride had unsettled him more than he cared to admit and he did not glance backwards as he rode out of the village, going further North along the shore of the sea.  
Above him in the sky, his hawk circled, looking out for her master with ever watchful eyes.

…

It was a beautiful afternoon, almost fit to make a man forget his troubles. The sky was a clear blue, the air was fragrant and after several weeks of idleness, Tristan's mare was happy to once again stretch her legs and run to her heart's content.

He followed the coastline for hours, always keeping his eyes open for a place where a ship might make berth. Odds were that the pirates, if that was what they were, had ventured South, where there was more loot to be had. But Arthur was a cautious man.  
As Tristan got further North, he had to slow down a little, in order to keep his eyes not only on the shore, but also on the land, for this was Woad territory.

The wind was picking up, carrying the strong, salty scent of the sea and playing with Tristan's hair and cloak like a spoilt child. His eyes were itchy with tiredness and his horse could not keep up the pace anymore, either. There was a small copse of trees ahead, which would, in theory, make a good resting place. He steered his horse towards it, fighting back a yawn as they entered the sheltering darkness of the trees. For once, the scout was unaware of the eyes, watching his every move.

…

Arrows were notched and bowstrings creaked quielty as they were drawn. From their perch in the trees, the Woad fighters exchanged glances. They were only four, but this was one knight, unaware and obviously tired. The small party's leader took a moment, weighing the odds, but then he nodded. With a twang, they realised their arrows within heartbeats of each other.  
The first two missed, merely spooking the horse and making it rear backwards. The third one hit him the thigh, the fourth in the shoulder. He did not scream, merely grunted in pain and toppled off his horse, his head striking the ground with a thud. The horse, still in panic and now so suddenly bereft of its rider, cantered further away into the trees.  
The warriors nodded at each other, victorious smiles on their blue faces. They climbed down to the ground and approached the still figure on the forest floor with caution.  
„Is he dead?" one of them asked, staring at the knight to detect any sort of movement.  
„Perhaps not yet," another one answered him, „but we'll find out..."

They turned abruptly when their scout came hurtling out of the bushes.  
„No time for that!" came the panted report, „there are more of them, and they're headed this way! Go, run, I'll stay behind and make sure they aren't following you!"  
The four men exchanged another quick glance, then the leader nodded.  
„Should we wait for you?"  
„No need," the scout answered. „I'll go straight back to Merlin from here. Now go, hurry!"  
They nodded, whispered quick words of farewell and disappeared into the bushes.

Once they were out of earshot, the scout hurried over to the fallen knight, dropped on her knees beside him and examined his wounds quickly.  
She sighed in relief when she saw that they were perhaps painful, but not life threatening. He had not yet regained consciousness.  
Caillean stroked his cheek and watched the pained frown lessen.  
„Tristan...", she whispered, a small, sad smile tugging at her lips, „what am I to do with you now...?"

…

The first thing he was aware of was warmth. It was cozy, wherever he was, and he was tired. Something soft was beneath his head, and he was covered with a thick blanket. Slowly, his senses returned to him. He could here a small fire crackling. There was pain in his shoulder and his leg, but it was bearable. Cracking open one eyelid, he could see a bandage of clean white linnen on his shoulder. Whoever had tended to his wounds had also removed his hauberk and the leather jerkin beneath. The delicious smell of roasted meat wafted over to him, prompting him to open his eyes fully and look around.  
It was dark, the inky sky was strewn with stars and he was at the edge of the copse. His horse had been hitched to a branch and was grazing contentedly. The saddle had been taken off and set on the ground and there, next to it, sat a woman. The firelight cast flickering shadows on her angular face, playing along the line of her lips and deepening the colour of her eyes to almost coal black.  
She was not looking at him at that moment, but at his hawk, feeding her strips of meat from her hand. Only when the bird had lost interest in food and started cleaning her feathers, did she turn to look at him. His cast one look around for the nearest weapon and saw his bow, sword and daggers neatly piled at his feet, before looking back at her. She had noticed the quick glance to his weapons and smiled slightly.

„Don't worry. If I wanted to hurt you, I would hardly have wasted my time treating your injuries." She got up, circled the fire and knelt down next to him. „How are you feeling?"  
His gaze remained weary as he watched her, sweeping once across her face and lingering for a moment on her broken nose. He ignored her question for the moment. "And why should I trust you?"  
Her smile grew wider and the slight twinkle in her eyes spoke of mischief. "Your hawk likes me."

_...to be continued..._


	6. Chapter 6

Starcrossed

Chapter Six

_Tristan/OC_

_Usual disclaimers apply. Please review._

_This chapter is dedicated to Dagg. You're the best. :) _

Tristan heaved himself into a sitting position with a groan. The movement jarred his shoulder and sent a spike of pain down his arm.  
Caillean watched him passively until he started to push back the blanket.  
„What are you doing?" she asked, frowning.  
„Leaving," he stated curtly and tried to get up. The pain in his leg flared and sent him back on the ground again.  
„Tristan, you can barely stand," Caillean tried to reason with him, „let alone sit a horse. Stay here tonight and let me look after you. You spared my life three times already. I owe you."  
The cold glare he sent her made it very clear what he thought about her looking after him.  
„Forget it!" he spat from between clenched teeth and made another attempt to get up.  
Caillean frowned angrily, put her hands on his shoulders and pushed him down again.  
„Fine! If you insist on being difficult... you're without weapons and you're on my side of the Wall. Consider yourself my prisoner."

She saw the sardonic smirk on his face and tensed, but even in this weakened state, he was still faster than her. He grabbed one of her hands, twisted her arm and kicked out with his uninjured leg. Caillean was thrown heavily onto her back and gasped as the wind was knocked out of her. The next moment, Tristan hat rolled himself on top of her, lips clenched tightly in pain, but a determined glint in his eyes.  
She pulled her dagger, tried to bring her arm up, but again he caught her wrist. The dagger lay in between them, a mere hand's breadth from both their necks.

Tristan's braids brushed her forehead and she could feel her heart pounding in her chest like a war drum. The way he lay pressed against her brought back memories that had her body reacting in a very inappropriate way. Slowly, she let go of the weapon and lifted her hands to his face, brushing back his hair, ghosting once over his lips.  
The cold fury in his eyes turned to confusion and he let her go swiftly, scooted back to the blanket and watched her warily.  
Caillean lay still for a moment, closed her eyes and waited for her breathing to steady. Then she rose, brushed off her clothes and held out her hand imperiously for her dagger. Tristan narrowed his eyes at her and put the blade down next to him.

She pursed her lips. „You might just acknowledge the fact that you are not well enough to ride. If you insist on trying and dying in the process, please. I can't stop you, as you have so aptly demonstrated just now."  
With these words, she turned from him, walked away a few paces to where the flickering light from the fire gave way to the shadowy darkness of the night, and sat down, legs crossed, her back to him. He kept watching her, and after a while, he could tell from her shaking shoulders that she was crying.

…

When he awoke again, night was just receding and the first glimmer of a grey dawn crept across the horizon. The air was moist and smelt of damp grass and rain. Mist cloaked the little camp like a translucent veil.  
Tristan's leg and shoulder throbbed painfully, his neck felt stiff and his throat scratchy. To add to that, he was about as hungry as a bear. Propping himself on the elbow of his uninjured arm, he cast a look around.

Caillean was kneeling close to the fire, cutting up a roasted rabbit. The dark circles under her eyes and her pallid complexion told him that she had not slept a wink that night. She saw him stirring, dug a chunk of bread from a leather bag beside her and filled it with meat.  
„Hungry?" she asked quietly and handed him the food upon his nod. He started eating silently. It was edible, though not particularly tasty. Still, it was food, and he was not one to complain.

While he ate, Caillean straightened up a few blankets and checked her own weapons. Judging by the tense set of her shoulders, she was well aware of him watching her. She did not meet his eyes as she handed him the waterskin. Instead, her gaze came to rest on the bandage around his shoulder.  
„I'll have to change that," she muttered and dug into a bag again, producing another length of clean linnen.

He finished his meal, washing down the stringy meat with a few mouthfuls of water. Then he started unlacing the front of his shirt and Caillean pushed it down one shoulder. The bandage was damp and the wound had bled a little more, however, no new blood came as she peeled it back cautiously.

Tristan watched her while she cleaned his wound, the blond head bowed before him, her fingers gentle on his skin, the way she clenched her bottom lip between her teeth in concentration.  
When she had finished wrapping the new bandage and straighted again, he caught her hand in his and held it for a moment. She eyed him uncertainly, while he glanced at their entwined hands and then back at her face, lingering once more on her nose.  
„I'm not sorry," he finally said, his deep voice coming out in little more than a whisper.  
Caillean raised her chin a little, pursing her lips in a defiant smirk.  
„I wouldn't expect you to be." She put her other hand over his and he pulled away at once.  
„They'll be looking for me. The other knights." There was an unspoken warning in his words, telling her to decide just what to do to him. Her glare turned angry for a moment, then she stood up and began straightening up their little campsite once more.

„You should be better by tomorrow. I'll put you on your horse and you can go back to your side of the Wall." The venom in her voice turned to bitterness. „Don't come back here and have us kill you! I know you only have a little while longer until you are free. Free from your service, free of Rome, free of Britain... and me..." Once again, her eyes narrowed. „And Britain will be free of you."  
She turned away, striding hurriedly away from him into the trees.

…

His leg shook a little when he put weight on it, but all in all, it was not half as bad as he had imagined. He'd waited for her to come back until the morning mist had all but receeded, but still she had not returned. If it hadn't been for her weapons still lying by the fire, he might have thought she'd gone for good.

As it was, he was tired of waiting, so he got up gingerly and limped in the direction she had taken.  
With the trees being rather sparse, she was easy enough to find.  
She stood beneath an old birch tree, one shoulder leaning against the bark, and was staring further into the thicket.

With his hurt leg impeding him, he was not nearly as silent as usual and her quick glance in his direction told him that she'd spotted him already. Yet she made no move as he drew a dagger from his belt and handed it to her, hilt first. Her own dagger.

„If you want to be free of me," he said softly, „there's an easy way."  
She looked at the dagger disdainfully and made no move to take it.  
„I am in no mood to play games," she told him, her voice as tired as her eyes.

Tristan's own were, as ever, unreadable beneath the fringe of unruly hair, his long, slender fingers played with the blade a little more, before he shrugged his good shoulder, tossed the dagger to the ground, cupped her face in his hands and kissed her.  
Caillean eagerly met his mouth with hers while his hands moved to her back and pulled her tightly against him. This kiss was different than the ones they'd shared before. It was slow and sensual, a kiss for its own sake, without leading up to anything. Her fingers caressed his neck and threaded through his hair while his tongue eased past her lips. They took their time, exploring each others' mouths as if they were kissing for the very first time.

When they finally did pull apart, he rested his forehead against hers and brushed a slight kiss onto the bump on her nose. As much an apology as she was ever going to get from him.  
„What are you doing to me...?" she asked, pressing herself to him and tugging a little on his hair. It was softer than it looked.  
Tristan smiled slightly, a mere quirk of his lips, and put his hand over her heart.  
„Making sure you'll never be free of me."

…

The sun's warm rays were painting warm patches of light onto the blanket. He watched the play of light and shadows while his thoughts whirled in his head.  
„You're frowning," Caillean observed, her head still on his chest and one arm slung around him. He pulled her a little tighter against him, let his fingers wander up and down her spine and nodded. She sighed, snuggled closer and trailed her lips up his neck until they hovered over his.  
„Do I want to know, what you've been thinking about?"  
His hand wandered from her spine to the back of her head and pulled her down. After a very thorough kiss, he let go of her again and his eyes wandered back to the small spots of warm light on the blanket covering both their bodies.  
„I'll have to leave," he finally said, „today."

It was her turn to frown at him.  
„But you're hurt! You can't travel like this!"  
„It's not far," Tristan replied evenly. „And they'll be wondering who cared for my wounds, anyway."

A dozen of replies lay waiting on the tip of Caillean's tongue, but she swallowed them bitterly.  
„This is... goodbye, then."  
She glanced at him quickly, but she caught him nodding anyway.  
„And I won't see you again, because you'll be leaving Britain soon."  
Again he nodded. Caillean took a deep, shuddering breath and blinked as tears started to cloud her vision. After a few attempts, she managed to force them back.

This time, no dream scenarios about how they might stay together popped up in her head. This, with his bandages rough beneath her fingers, felt too much like reality. And in this reality, she knew that they would probably never meet again. He would not go North and she would not venture South, and soon, he would leave Britain forever.

…

Tristan mounted his horse carefully, but it was a painful feat nonetheless. Caillean watched him apprehensively and then, at his nod, came closer.  
„This is it, then..." she said, cursing herself for the triteness of her words. They seemed to fall between them like bricks, separating them once more in their respective worlds.

„Take care of yourself," he told her, his voice back to his deep growl, his expression once more guarded.  
„I will," she promised and attempted a smile, even when faced with the stony cold side of him. „And please promise me that you will, too. Survive this and go home. Be free of Rome."

She wanted to tell him to think of her, once he was free, but she didn't. Instead, she looked at him intently, tried to memorize every line of his face, from his hazel eyes, the tattoos on his high cheekbones to the curve of his mouth and the brown beard, flecked with grey. Her eyes lingered on those lips and she wanted to kiss him one last time before he rode away. But she didn't.  
She stood and watched him go, saw him disappear. His hawk circled above him.

…

To Tristan, the hours seemed like days until he finally saw the tall, magnificent structure of the Wall and its gateway looming before him. He made it past it, waving away the concerned questions from the watchmen about a possible Woad attack. Badon Fort was close, and he felt cold sweat on his forehead. The pain in his leg had turned from a dull throb to a constant bright hot flare and every movement his horse made was agony.

The call from the Roman guard to open the gates of the fortress was the second most welcome sound in the world, right after Arthur's deep bass, which he heard a scant few minutes later. He had just directed his mare towards the stables, where Arthur and Lancelot were waiting for him.

„Tristan!" his commander called, „Welcome back! We were beginning to worry..."  
He broke off when he noticed his scout's sallow complexion and the beads of perspiration on his face. Lancelot hurried over to him and steadied him as he dismounted.

„I see you found you're share of trouble, too", he commented wryly.  
„What happened?" Arthur asked, his jovial mood gone as quickly as a snowflake in June.  
Tristan gently but firmly disentangled himself from Lancelot's helping hands and brushed Arthur's question off in the process.

„Woads", he simply replied. Only then did he become aware of Lancelot eying his bandaged shoulder, a feat he couldn't possibly have mastered alone. Tristan could see the myriad of questions in his brother's eyes and shook his head almost imperceptively.  
Thankfully, Lancelot sighed and nodded slightly.

Later, as he sat in the tavern and nursed a mug of ale, he thought once more about what had happened and what would happen. He watched his fellow knights, his brothers, the only family he had left. But soon, they would be torn apart and the others would have homes to go back to.  
While he could not begrudge them that, he couldn't help but wonder where he would go and whether or not he was really so eager to leave. Here, he had a duty to perform, he was given orders and acted on them. He killed, because it was something he was good at, something he even enjoyed. What would he do when his term of service was up and there would be no one left to give him something to do?  
In all honesty, he was not as eager to leave as some, because then he'd lose that semblance of purpose he'd had before.  
He kept telling himself that it was the only reason.

_...to be continued..._


	7. Chapter 7

Starcrossed

Chapter Seven

_Tristan/OC_

_Usual disclaimers apply. Please review.  
In this chapter, we'll reach the events of the movie. I will use some movie dialogue, for which I claim no credit, of course. I could skirt around it or change it some, but as they say: If it's not broke, don't fix it._

"I figured I'd find you here."  
Lancelot did not speak loudly, yet his voice carried easily across the little graveyard. Tristan glanced over his shoulder for a moment, but he did not reply, instead he went back to staring at Bedivere's grave and the hilt of the protruding sword.  
Lancelot joined him and laid a hand on his shoulder – the one not still wearing a bandage.  
"Tristan...," he began slowly, "I know Bedivere's death is hard for you to bear. And I know nobody will ever be able to replace him for you. But even you need someone to talk to. Please. It is obvious that you're not well."  
Fifteen years together had taught them how to read each other. A casual observer might not have noticed the internal struggle being played out in Tristan's eyes, but to his brother in arms, it was easily visible. He squeezed his shoulder slightly.  
The scout still did not meet his eyes, but his tense muscles relaxed a little.

"I think I am just uncertain about the future," he said quietly. "When Rome lets us go, I don't know where to turn."  
"You'll be with us!" Lancelot told him firmly. "Fifteen years of brotherhood don't just end. If you're not certain where to find your tribe or whether you want to go back there, you'll just come with me." He shot him a teasing grin. "I have a younger sister, you know."

Tristan gave a tight smile in response, but again, the handsome knight caught the short grimace that crossed his face.

"Unless..." he went on thoughtfully, "...your heart is already taken. Am I finally going to find out who's been on your mind for the past weeks? And who cared for you while you were supposedly alone?"

Now Tristan shook of his hand and turned back to the fort.  
"No," he replied shortly, "just let it go."

Lancelot fell into step beside him and smiled like a cat that had just eaten a very tasty bird. "Please, you should know me better by know. Come on, tell me. It will do you good, and besides, it will stay strictly between us!"

Just out of earshot from the gate, Tristan stopped walking and turned once more to the other knight.

"Swear it!" he demanded seriously. "Promise me, on your honour, that you won't tell anyone about it. Not even Arthur!"  
Lancelot arched a dark eyebrow. "Tristan, Arthur has a lot on his mind. He doesn't pay much attention to his knight's secret lovers... whoa!"

Tristan had grasped him by the front of the tunic and stared at him.  
"Swear it, Lance!"

"Alright, alright, I swear it," he conceded, a little taken aback by the intensity of Tristan's plea. "Now, who is the mystery woman who has managed to capture the heart of our so elusive scout?" 

...

Cædmon awoke from hearing his sister crying at night. For almost ten nights in a row, ever since she had come back home, she would get into bed after she tought he'd fallen asleep and then start crying, trying to muffle the sound of her sobbing by biting the blanket.  
And even during the daytime, she was quiet, withdrawn and sometimes stared into the sky as if it might just hold the solution to her sorrows.

Cædmon sighed. It pained him to see his sister so unhappy, but it hurt even worse that she was apparently unable or unwilling to confide in him. They had always been close, much closer than him and Eivlin ever had been. After the deaths of their parents, he considered her the only real family he had left.  
Enough, he decided, as he heard her weeping once more, cast back the blankets and got up.  
Caillean's bed was in a niche close to the fire, curtained off from the rest of the room. He drew back the curtains, sat down on the edge of her bedstead and gently touched her shoulder.

"What are you crying about, little one?" he asked softly.

"I can't tell you," came her muffled reply, "I just can't!"  
"Hush," he admonished and shook her shoulder a little, "you know you can tell me anything."

She stilled for a moment before turning over and looking at him through teary eyes.  
"Not this, I'm afraid. You... wouldn't understand."  
"Don't say that! I might not always be able to help you, but I'll always understand."

Caillean hesitated. Her gaze wandered from the circular tattoo on Cædmon's forehead down to his vibrantly blue eyes. She had seen every emotion in them, from love to hate, sadness to joy. But she did not know if she could stand it if he looked on her in disappointment.  
"There is a man..." she began slowly and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, "but he is not one of us. I met him a few times, but I will never see him again and that makes me sad. Can we leave it at that?"

Her brother's brow furrowed in a slight frown.  
"What man is he that you'll never see him again? A Briton from the other side...?" His eyes widened as Caillean flushed slightly and refused to answer. "Not a Roman, surely! By the gods, Caillean..."  
"No!" she cut in quickly, "not a Roman! Please, I told you that you wouldn't understand!" She looked at him pleadingly, but her brother was nothing if not stubborn. Heaving a great sigh, she went on: "He will be leaving Britain soon and go back home."  
Watching Cædmon's face at that moment was like seeing a thunderstorm approaching on the horizon. He sat up straight and looked away from her. Caillean closed her eyes and shook her head sadly. Then she turned away from him again and burrowed back under the blanket.  
He got up a moment later and returned to his own bed. No further words were spoken that night.

...

Lancelot said nothing for a long while after Tristan had finished his tale. They had found a spot at the foot of the wall, overlooking the little cemetery, where they'd sat down to talk. It was perhaps the most Lancelot had ever heard the quiet scout speak in one single conversation.  
"Well, say something," he finally growled. The curly haired knight sighed.  
"It is... a bad situation you find yourself in, my friend," he admitted, „and I don't really know what to tell you."  
"It's not advice I'm looking for. She's a Woad. If we came across each other in battle, one of us would die."  
"You spared her twice already", Lancelot reminded him and grinned for a moment, "You're what they call 'starcrossed lovers'. But perhaps you won't even have to fight the Woads ever again."  
Tristan looked at him questioningly and he explained: "We ride out in four days to escort the Bishop... er... something-or-other back to Badon Fort. He'll be carrying our discharge."  
As he spoke, he watched Tristan closely. For a moment, a look of sorrow passed across the scout's face, but it was swiftly replaced by his usual stoic countenance.  
"We won't be leaving right away, of course," he went on. "After all, you don't pack up fifteen years in a mere couple of hours and sling them onto a horse's back."  
"Especially if those fifteen years come with a woman and eleven brats to take care of," Tristan added dryly.  
"Although Bors might be well advised to just sling Vanora onto a horse's back... might do her some good." They shared a laugh at the thought and Tristan looked at Lancelot, appearing at least a little more cheerful. He gave him a little shove.  
"Thank you."  
"Anytime, brother. Anytime."

...

It was a damp and dreary morning. The sun had risen behind a veil of ominous clouds and a slight drizzle had been falling for hours.

"You cannot keep ignoring me!"  
Caillean's voice broke the silence of the morning like a whip. Cædmon, who was sitting underneath an old oak try, sharpening the blade of his axe, did not look up as she came closer. A muscle in his jaw twitched.  
"I understand that you're angry with me," she went on and got down on her knees next to him, "and I can certainly understand that you are disappointed in me, but please..." her tone turned from insistent to beseeching, "I am your sister and I love you! No matter what I've done, you have to forgive me!"

She put a hand to his shoulder, felt him first tense, then relax under her touch and his hands ceased their movement. After a long moment of silence, he turned his head towards her. His eyes searched her face, looking at her intently as if he'd never seen her before.  
"If he asked you to go with him," he asked slowly, "would you go?"  
"Well, he didn't ask me," she answered and felt her stomach clench for a moment, "but even if he had..." Caillean shook her head. "I could never leave Britain. I have loved and bled for this country. And I could never leave you." She smiled shakily as new tears came to her eyes. "How could I trade my brother's love for the perhaps fleeting affection of some knight...?"  
He laid his axe aside and wrapped both arms around her in a crushing bear hug. She let the breath she had unknowingly held escape her lungs in a puff as she buried her face in his hair and clung to him tightly.  
"A knight, eh?" he asked dryly. "I think you'd better finish your story."  
Caillean held her brother tight and laughed.

...

Days passed. The inhabitants of Badon Fort noticed a strange sort of tension in the air. The knights seemed more lively than usual although they kept to the fort. Still, the anticipation was felt by everyone and it was not only Tristan who was up at dawn, standing atop the southern wall, staring into the distance as if willing it could bring their freedom closer.

Finally, on the fourth day, they rode out to meet their freedom. The sun had just risen and was glowing like a torch behind the clouds. The wet grass was shimmering in various shades of green and silver and the dew drops on the naked trees caught the light, making them shimmer like ice sculptures.  
Two hours from Badon Fort they caught sight of the bishop's carriage and the small entourage accompanying it. Every single one of them heaved a small sigh of relief. Until that moment, they had almost doubted that this day would really come. Yet there it was, winding its way towards them, like a colourful little caterpillar in the distance.

"As promised..." Gawain observed. "The bishop's carriage."  
"Our freedom, Bors!" Galahad added, his dark eyes shining with joy and Bors grinned broadly, pursed his lips in delight and nodded.  
"I can almost taste it."

...

Cædmon held his knife clenched firmly between his teeth, his battle axe in one hand, the other one held up, signaling his men to wait. He listened. Hoof beats of several horses, the rumbling of two wagons, the creaking of leather. Quiet Roman voices. They were almost past their position. Cædmon exchanged glances with the other men, hiding with him in the brushwork. And then they charged.

The battle was brutal, bloody – and over quickly.  
At first, the Romans were taken by surprise. Their horses were spooked by the shrill battle cries and the arrows suddenly whizzing at them, the soldiers couldn't assume formation before the warriors were upon them.  
But then the knights came, and with them came defeat. They broke into the battle like a stone thrown into a pool, leaving death in their wake.  
Their weapons gleamed even in the weak winter sun and it seemed the gods favoured them on this day, for no one managed to hurt them.

Cædmon fought bravely, and the Romans fell before the savage strikes of his axe, but they were losing anyway.  
And then he ran at Arthur Castus himself. But just as he got close, the commander of the knight whirled around and Cædmon skidded to a stop, the tip of Arthur's famous sword Excalibur at his throat. He gasped dryly, staring at the gleaming blade and then up into the intense green eyes of its wielder, let go of his axe and dropped to his knees.  
Arthur did not move to sword. "Why did Merlin send you south of the Wall?" he demanded.  
"_Spill my blood with Excalibur_," Cædmon growled at him in his mother tongue, "_and make this ground holy!"_  
Arthur narrowed his eyes at him and glanced once at the axe.  
"Pick it up!" he told him, and increased the pressure of the sword tip against Cædmon's throat a little as he made no move to do so. "Pick it up!"  
Dropping the pretense of not understanding him, Cædmon slowly picked up his weapon and once more looked into Arthur's eyes defiantly, who in turn let his gaze sweep the tree line once before unexpectedly lowering his sword and turning away from him.  
Cædmon let his head sink forward and fought to catch his breath. From the moment Excalibur hat touched his neck, he had expected to die. He would not have expected to be shown mercy by one of the knights, least of all the only Roman among them.  
He got up slowly and let his gaze linger on the knights for a moment, wondering which one of them was the dog that had defiled his sister. Some returned the look, watched him suspiciously until he retreated, turned his back on them and ran back towards the trees.

...

Tristan, twirling an apple in his long, dexterous fingers, watched his fellow knights as they enjoyed themselves in the tavern. It was filled with music, light and warmth, and the rich scent of roasted venison and strong, warm mead was especially welcome after the long ride through the cold.  
But underneath the merriment was an underlying tension. They wanted it to be over, wanted the discharge papers Bishop Germanius had waved tantalizingly in front of them and then snatched back.  
Lancelot was playing dice with a few Roman soldiers, but he was visibly on edge. Every once in a while, he would cast a look towards the door of the main building. The only time he was his usual jovial self was when Vanora refilled his mug and he pulled her onto his lap, earning himself a light slap in the face.  
Gawain and Galahad had started a knife throwing competition that yielded poor results, no doubt owing to the amount of wine they already poured down their throats.

Galahad's knife hit closer to the mark than Gawain's had, anyway, and Tristan, passing behind them, casually let his own knife fly. It embedded itself firmly in the hilt of Galahad's, prompting the young knight to stare at the scout in disbelief. "Tristan..."  
"How d'you do that?" Gawain inquired, absentmindedly stroking the arm of a pretty dark haired girl sitting on his lap.  
Tristan allowed himself the ghost of a smile and gestured at the knives with his apple.  
"I aim for the middle."

A short while later, Bors was able to convince Vanora to sing them a song of their home. Respectful silence fell over the crowded room, the wind in the thatched roof and the crackling of the fire were the only sounds beside her voice.  
She sang very well and her song carried the heartache and homesickness they all felt or had felt at some point in their lives.  
Tristan, however, felt distinctly uneasy, and as he exchanged glances with Lancelot, he saw that he was not the only one. No one could have told it from the impassive expression on his face, but he was sure that their freedom would have to wait a little longer.  
And once Arthur joined them after Vanora's song was over, it took only one look at their commander's face to tell him that he was right.

...

Celyn and Caillean ran as though the hounds of hell were behind them, and indeed, that was not far off. What they had seen up north had turned both their stomachs and made fear, cold and clammy, claw its way into Caillean's stomach. The Saxons had massacred another fishing village further north and the two scouts had arrived just in time to witness the end of the slaughter. The Saxons had left none alive, retreating back to their ships. But it was clear to both Celyn and Caillean that they would return home after raiding a few villages, for there were far too many of them for so meager a purpose.

They had been discovered by a Saxon warrior and only the fact that Celyn was extremely quick with his knife and had been able to slit his throat before he could sound an alarm had saved them from a similar fate as the villagers.

Stopping only briefly, taking just enough rest to keep themselves from utter exhaustion, they made their way back to Merlin.  
Celyn fell to his knees next to their leader, ramming the knife they had taken from the Saxon deep into the ground.  
"_Saxons_!" he rasped.  
All around him were shocked intakes of breath. Merlin touched the knife, examined it for a moment. There was trepidation in his eyes as he looked back to his scouts.  
"_How many?_" he asked curtly. Celyn and Caillean exchanged helpless looks, before Celyn turned back to his leader and answered.

"_Thousands_."

_...to be continued..._


	8. Chapter 8

Starcrossed

Chapter Eight

_Tristan/OC_

_Usual disclaimers apply. Please review. I have to admit to losing enthusiasm for this story, in part because I have an idea for another, and because I'm simply not happy with it. I find my own writing to be a little... "bla", if you know what I mean. So now I am faced with having to make a decision. Do I discontinue this story, finish it in the same style I started, or keep updating a little slower and write the second story at the same time? Any thoughts? For now though, let's continue. This chapter is mostly taken from the movie, but I like this scene so much I didn't want to deprive you of it._

Silence lay heavy on their hearts as the knights left Badon Fort a mere few hours after dawn on the next day. A sense of trepidation hung over them, a dark chill that had nothing to do with the weather. Freedom had been so close, had been palpable, visible, and yet it lay further away than ever before. Only Tristan had ever ventured further north than a few hours ride would take him, and he had returned from the experience with two arrow wounds. Lancelot had said it best, yelled it, in fact, when he had told Arthur that going that far north was insanity, suicide, even. But Arthur had been adamant.

They were riding now, their horses' exhales showing as white puffs of mist in the frigid air. The heavy gate in Hadrian's Wall was being opened for them, creaking and protesting like the joints of an old man. Roman guards saluted them and their gazes, some merely confused, others downright pitying, followed them as they crossed that line between the Britain under Roman rule and the untamed North where Merlin and his fighters held control.

Tristan cast surreptitious glances at the other men riding alongside him. Their expressions were set in varying degrees of grimness, lack of sleep and anxiety etched onto their faces as though carved there with knifes.  
He was, perhaps, the calmest of them all. In truth, he couldn't help but feel a strange sort of finality as his trusted mare carried him further north. Their charge, of course, was ridiculous. They were risking their lives to escort one Roman family to the Wall, saving one tiny group of people from a Saxon onslaught that had, according to Bishop Germanius, already begun? Laughable. Thousands more would die as the Saxons cut a swath across the land. Unless this family held a hero in their midst capable of rescuing the entire Roman empire, Tristan could think of no reason why they would risk everything to bring them to safety.  
Yet here they were and it still felt right to him. For all the pain they had endured, blood they had shed for Britain, it seemed to him as if this mission, although it was supposed to be their last, might just be the beginning of something else. Maybe nothing. Maybe death. But at least it would be a change.

They kept a brisk pace, eager to reach their destination and be on the return journey as quickly as possible. Their midday meal was taken in the saddle and as dusk approached, they were already far from the Wall. It had started to rain in the afternoon. A slight drizzle at first, it had turned into a downpour as the sun went down.  
"We'll camp for the night," Arthur decided, pointing at a vast, sprawling forest looming before them. "We will find shelter there and reach our destination tomorrow."  
"Bloody trees," Galahad grumbled, prompting Lancelot and Arthur to exchange a half-hearted grin. They slowed their horses to a trot as they entered the forest, keeping their eyes peeled for any movement. The waning daylight filtered through the canopy of branches and made for an even gloomier atmosphere.  
Tristan tilted his head this way and that, listening intently in every direction.  
"Woads," he finally declared, drawing level with Arthur, "they're tracking us."  
"Where?" the commander asked, to which his scout could only cast a meaningful look around.  
"Everywhere."

A few moments later, the stillness of the forest burst apart and a rush of movement went through the trees. Arrows flew from between the bushes, not meant to kill or even hurt, but to bar the way. Ropes, studded with thorns, were tied to the arrows, spooking the horses and forcing the riders back.  
"This way!" Arthur yelled, leading them down another path, now at a straight gallop. Again, however, they were impeded, herded down yet another path, the muddy ground a slippery danger underneath the horses' hooves.  
Finally they found themselves surrounded, arrows and spears pointed at them from every direction. They drew their own swords, but it was a futile gesture of defiance. This was _their_ land, and should they choose to fight, it would most likely mean their death.

Arthur locked eyes with the man in front of him. He recognized him at once, having seen him only the day before, on his knees, with Excalibur at his throat. Rage burned in the stranger's blue eyes and his arms -and with them the bow he was holding- trembled. He was undoubtedly ready to kill them, but something was holding him back.  
Tristan kept his piercing gaze firmly fixed on any movement in the bushes. His arrow was pointed at one of the archers perched on the low branches of the surrounding trees, a gesture no less laughable than the swords in Lancelot's hands, but at least he would take one of the bastards with him, he thought.  
"What are you waiting for!" Gawain yelled, his whole body tensed like wolf's, ready to jump at its prey.  
Nothing happened and the Woads still did not stir. Suddenly, there was the sound of a horn being blown in the distance. For a moment, the stranger in front of Arthur made a face as though he wanted to scream with fury, then he lowered his bow, nodded at his comrades and they retreated into the darkness.  
"Why would they not attack?" Galahad asked, his frustration with the entire situation apparent in his voice. Arthur sheathed Excalibur slowly.  
"Because Merlin doesn't want us dead."  
None of them knew whether that was supposed to be reassuring or not.

...

They made camp a short distance further into the woods. Taking shelter in the trees had been a good idea in theory, but the rain came down with a vengeance, and they were quickly soaked to the bone anyway.  
They had unsaddled the horses and Galahad had, after many failed attempts, managed to light a fire. They huddled around it, eager to get as close to the warmth as possible. Tristan, however, sat a little apart from the rest. He had taken out his sword and was polishing the already gleaming blade once more. There was a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach, a nervousness that he couldn't shake.

Gawain grunted. "I can't wait to leave this island!" He cast a dark look at the soggy ground. "If it's not raining, it's snowing. If it's not snowing, it's foggy!"  
"And that's the summer!" Lancelot added, to the amusement of the others.  
"Rain is good," Bors grumbled with a crooked grin, "Washes all the blood away."  
"Doesn't help the smell," Dagonet countered dryly, prompting Bors to chuckle.  
"Hey, Bors..." Lancelot began, leaning a little closer, so as not to have to shout over the sound of the rain, "you intend to take Vanora and all your little bastards back home?"  
Bors tilted his head back, allowing the water to catch him in the face for a moment.  
"I've been trying to avoid that decision..." he answered, once more giving a crooked little grin, "by getting killed." Gawain and Lancelot chuckled at that, but Bors, apparently only half kidding, nudged Dagonet.  
"Dagonet... she wants to get married. Give the children names! Women!"  
The others shot him a few odd looks and Tristan, who hadn't joined in the conversation so far, glanced up from cleaning the long, curved blade of his sword.  
"The children already have names, don't they?"  
Bors shook his bald head. "Nah, just Gilly. It's too much trouble, so... we gave the rest of them numbers."  
"That's interesting," Lancelot quipped, "I thought you couldn't count."  
Even Dagonet laughed at that, but Bors was unfazed. His expression was unusually pensive.  
"You know, I'd never thought I'd get back home alive," he said to the group at large. "Now I've got the chance... I don't wanna leave my children."  
Dagonet nodded. The firelight cast flickering shadows onto his scarred face. "You'd miss'em too much."  
"I'll take'em with me," Bors went on, his voice still low, "I like the little bastards. They mean something to me." Then he cleared his throat and regained a little of his boisterous tone. "Especially Number Three! He's a good fighter."  
Lancelot grinned at him. "That's because he's mine."

Tristan had followed the exchange without further comment. He thought back to the discussion he'd had with Bedivere about Bors and Vanora. No doubt Bedivere would have supported the decision to take the children along to Sarmatia. For a fleeting moment, he allowed himself to think of Caillean and what she might have said if he had asked her to go with him, but he couldn't quite imagine what that might have been. Again it struck him how little he actually knew about her. It had never bothered him before about the women he took to bed. Sometimes even knowing their names seemed like time wasted. But Caillean was different. In the short time he'd known her, he had come to care about her in a way he'd never cared before. Since he had little to no experience with love -and, until now, little interest to learn- he was not sure what to call it, yet he knew that he felt a certain tightening in his stomach when she was near, felt content when he saw her smile and by the gods, he wanted her.  
Gawain's jarring laughter shook him from his thoughts and he longed for a moment of solitude.

"Going to look around for a bit," he announced briefly, before turning and striding away from the fire. The others took no note of him. It was a common occurrence for him to scout the area once more before turning in for the night. Only Lancelot's eyes followed him a while, a small, bitter smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

...

Tristan walked further into the woods at a languid pace until the sounds of voices and the light of the fire had vanished and the almost ethereal glow of a moonlit forest surrounded him. He stopped, tilted his head to one side and listened. A slight frown creased his forehead and his hand dropped onto the hilt of his sword.  
"You know, for a scout, you make an awful lot of noise," he stated.  
A moment later, a few branches to his left were pushed aside and Caillean squeezed none too elegantly past, the sleeve of the oversized tunic she wore getting caught and tearing a little in the process. She gave the torn garment a blank look and sighed, before turning once more to Tristan.  
"Well, I never claimed to be a good scout," she answered him, a bashful little smile on her lips. "Besides, your knights rely so much on you that they are practically blind and deaf themselves."

They stood a few feet apart, once more unsettled by their meeting. Caillean's gaze fell to Tristan's hand, still resting on the hilt of his sword.  
"Are we to do this every time we meet, then?" she asked wearily. "Because I strongly suspect that you could once more overpower me quite easily."  
The knight looked perplexed for a second, then he followed her pointed stare and dropped his hand quickly.  
"I didn't think I'd see you again", she went on as he still remained mute. "Much less here, under these circumstances."  
"And what circumstances would that be?" he asked, his gravelly voice neutral, although his hazel eyes narrowed a little and he cast a quick look around.  
"I am alone," she answered the unspoken question first. "And you and your men will not be harmed by us. Not since we have a common enemy."

"The Saxons." Nothing in Tristan's voice indicated that it was a question, but Caillean nodded anyway.  
"Yes, the Saxons. Every Saxon you kill is one less for us to worry about." A sardonic smile curled her lips that did not fit her pretty face in the slightest. "Besides, what are nine men compared to thousands."

Tristan frowned. The wind was picking up, his wet clothes stuck unpleasantly to his skin and tendrils of his damp hair curled against his neck.  
"Thousands?"  
She shrugged. Her fingers were playing with the tear in her tunic, fraying the edges beyond mending.  
"I'm not sure how many they are. Northeast of here is where we saw them."

She looked frail in the semi-darkness, a thin, scrawny thing, fragile as a little bird. Her blond hair fell unbound over her shoulders and reminded him too much of the dead bride in the fishing village. For a horrible moment, he pictured her dead, the stormy grey eyes glassy, empty, forever staring up a nothing, the skin pale as fresh snow, the sun kissed hair red with blood.

"Come with me!" he blurted out, crossing the distance between them in three long strides and gently clasping her shoulders. She stared at him, unblinking.  
"And go where?" Her voice was brittle and he knew that she'd understood, yet he elaborated anyway.  
"Away from here, away from Britain before the Saxons overrun it. Come home with me."

For a moment, he allowed himself to entertain the notion of coming home to this woman night after night, kissing no lips but hers, lying with her, in her embrace, and seeing her belly swell with a child begotten from his seed... The defeated look in her eyes told him no before she even opened her mouth.

"Cædmon, my brother, wanted to know what I would do if you asked me that."  
Her voice was barely audible, a whisper as quiet as the wind in the dried autumn leaves. "I told him... what I have to tell you now. I could never leave Britain, Tristan. Never. This is my home. I buried my parents here. Now, for the first time, we have a chance at making Britain ours again... and I cannot leave my people. Not in times like these."

It surprised him how much her words hurt, a stabbing pain in his chest that made his breath hitch.  
She reached up, traced the contours of his face gently and tilted his head up, until he met her eyes once more.  
"I think I love you," she said softly, "and yet I am afraid of you. You confuse me, you hurt me, every time I see you and part of me wants you gone... and at the same time, I cannot bear the thought that I might never see you again, that there is no place for me in your life and that there is no way we could ever be together!" Tears clouded her vision, clung to her lashes for a second before sliding down her cheeks. "I grow so very tired of saying goodbye to you and thinking I might never see you again!"

He didn't answer, merely pulled her into a tight embrace and bit his lips until he tasted blood.  
"I will keep my eyes on you until you make it back to the Wall," she murmured into his shoulder, "and once you're back there, you will leave this land and be safe. You will go home and you will take a wife and you will..."

"Shut up," he cut across her sharply, his hands gripped the back of her tunic roughly and his mouth came crashing down on hers, in a kiss of bruising force. He hitched one of her legs around his hips, until she was pressed as closely against him as humanly possible, while his other hand curled almost too tightly around her neck. Her own hands gripped his hair until she nearly yanked it out by the roots and she arched into him. It was a viciously hungry kiss that left her eyes half-lidded with lust and her lips red and wet when their mouths finally separated.  
He still held her firmly against him and she could feel that their kissing had had a notable effect on him, too. As she shifted her hips slightly, he bit his lip and tightened his hold on her. They looked at each other, unsmiling.

"What now?" she asked bleakly. He stared down at her, his eyes almost black in the half-light. His posture was strained, his broad shoulders tensed as if he was poised for movement. Caillean's hands sank onto his back and she could feel his muscles bunch under the tender touch of her fingers. No words left his mouth, no possible comfort or explanation or tender word. He could think of nothing to say, nothing that would make this moment any better. He longed for the times before he'd known her, back when everything had been simple.

After a few more moments of silence, Caillean broke free of his embrace and retreated a few steps. He took a deep breath, preparing to say... something. Anything. She shook her head and grinned, looking a little like she had on the day she'd first fed his hawk from her hand.

"I don't know what to say, either," she admitted and the tension eased, like fog lifting on a meadow.  
"I'll see you," he told her and her grin turned into a quiet little laugh.  
"You probably will," she agreed, already disappearing back into the trees, "like I said, I'm not exactly a good scout."

_...to be continued, unless there's no further interest. _


	9. Chapter 9

Starcrossed

Chapter Nine

_Tristan/OC_

_Usual disclaimers apply. Please review. I had a really bad day, I recovered, I'm back in full swing. And I'll definitely finish this story. I have never abandoned one before, I won't start now. Besides, I watched the movie again yesterday, had a few more ideas and regained my inspiration. So please forgive me. I know how I feel about discontinued fics. And Dagg, I'm sorry. I should have known I could count on you. ;)  
On with it! _

The weather grew steadily worse, the wind whipping the land with an icy hand. Rain turned to snow as they got further north, the hills were painted blueish grey in the dim light and the clouds looked like quicksilver. What little conversations there had been ceased after they had broken their fast. Tristan's hawk soared through the sky, uttered a piercing cry and swooped down to land on her master's arm. Looking around, he realised once more, that the land was beautiful in its own right, a harsh beauty, the kind that gripped the heart and soul and left you thinking on it long after you had seen it. All beautiful images aside, however, the nagging feeling he'd had since the past night would not leave him.

Arthur had them rest at the edge of a frozen meadow. The winter sun cast blinding reflections on the ice coating the trees and made it twinkle.  
Horton, the bishop's secretary, was chattering with cold and seemed frozen on his horse and Jols, ever attentive servant that he was, dug an extra cloak out of his luggage. The freezing wind rustled through the branches, tore at their cloaks and tousled Tristan's hair into a tangled mass.  
"We will reach the villa of Marius Honorius around midday," Arthur told his knights. "Tristan, I need to know how much time we have before the Saxons get there. Ride ahead and meet us at the estate."  
The scout nodded briefly, turned his mare northeast and spurred her to a gallop. He needed no further instructions and was, in all honesty, quite relieved to be on his own again for a while. The increasingly dour expression on Galahad's face had warned him all morning that the young knight would not remain silent for much longer and he was in no mood for another of his comrade's litanies of complaint.

Since he rode alone, he could press on, ride faster than he did with others around. For the first time since Bedivere's death, he was able to put all else aside and concentrate solely on his task. Now and again, he glanced upwards and saw that his trusted hawk was still with him. He knew she would alert him of any danger. Passing the fork in the road that would lead him to the Roman villa, he continued on further north, a short distance up into the mountains and then further east to the coast. When the snow finally let up a little, he had reached a cliff that allowed him to overlook a long, curving bay with a little stretch of shingle beach. Before he even got close to the rim, he could hear the harsh, bellowing voices of men shouting commands. He got off his horse, crept closer to the precipice and peered down. What he saw made the bile rise in his throat. The Saxon ships floated just offshore and more and more of the big, fur-clad men poured onto the beach. Judging by the speed with which they were disembarking, they were unlikely to stay there for the night.

Tristan considered his options for a moment, chewing absentmindedly on his bottom lip. The Saxon force was larger than he had anticipated and Arthur would have to be told. But before he could turn back, he would stay with them a little longer to find out exactly where they were headed. If the ominous feeling he still had, stronger than ever, was any indication, they would come into much closer contact with the Saxon army before they were back behind Hadrian's Wall.

...

Caillean sensed her brother's anger before he'd even opened his mouth. He had arrived back at camp an hour ago, discarded his weapons and went to talk to Merlin in hushed, insistent tones.  
She had kept a close eye on the two men, hardly paying any attention to the tunic she had been mending.  
Whatever they were talking about, they were not of one mind on the matter. Merlin had his arms crossed in front his chest, his bearded chin raised and his keen, piercing eyes were narrowed, glaring at Cædmon in disapproval. Her brother, meanwhile, was gesturing wildly, a frown marring his brown. His voice was audible over the crackling of the fire, the sizzling of the cooking pots and the muted conversations of the others, as an angry hiss. Finally, Merlin simply turned away from Cædmon and strode away, leaving his second in command in frustrated silence.

Caillean squeaked quietly as she rammed the needle into her own thumb and turned back to her mending, muttering inaudible swearwords under her breath and cursing herself for getting distracted. A moment later, Cædmon joined her at the fire, sat down next to her and growled a short greeting. She eyed him for a moment, taking in the scowl on her brother's face and the way his expressive mouth was set in a grim line. The fire was reflected in his blue eyes, making them burn in a cold flame.

"What is it?" she asked after a while and put her hand on his arm gently. He didn't reply at first, simply ground his teeth a little more and huffed indignantly. Caillean didn't press him, she knew him too well. Since they were children, Cædmon had always needed his time to calm down after an argument. In battle, he was calm and collected, always knew where his men were and always endeavored to be one step ahead of his enemy. Outside of these situations, however, he had a volatile temper and a tongue that was sharper than the edge of his battle axe.

"I asked him why he called us back," he said abruptly after several more moments of silence. Caillean put down the tunic and turned her full attention to her brother.  
"Called you back...?"  
"Why he would not let us attack the knights yesterday."

He did not look at her yet, and Caillean did not mind at all. She picked at the newly sewn seam and waited for him to continue.  
"Well...?" she prompted after a moment.

"He would not tell me!" Cædmon growled. "He said that there is a purpose to Arthur and his knights yet. Damn them all, I see no purpose they could serve in our country!"

Caillean frowned and looked up at him. "Don't be unfair. Even you have praised Arthur Castus many times. Our enemy he might be... or might have been, but he has always been a very honorable opponent. Remember, you yourself owe him your life!"

Cædmon shot her a very sour look, apparently not too happy to have been reminded of that fact. He bared his teeth for a moment in the mockery of a smile. "Please tell me that he's not the one you've been sleeping with!"

She flushed a dark crimson and lightly punched him in the arm. Not even from her brother would take comments like that lying down.

"I don't see what that would have to do with anything... but no, he is not. And I would thank you not to bring that up again," she told him waspishly. Cædmon, sensing that he had overstepped his bounds, raised his hands in surrender.

"Fine, as you wish, sister. We have enough enemies without antagonizing each other. But maybe you will consent to tell me, why Merlin wishes to see you upon his return? Talk to you alone?" His words startled her as well. It was certainly not the first time she'd had words with their leader, but so far he had never asked for her directly. She shrugged.

"I'll tell you as soon as I know. Maybe it has to do with scouting further north."  
She turned back to her mending. "Nothing to do but wait."

...

Merlin returned in the early hours of the next day. Caillean had been asleep, her dreams untroubled by either knights or Saxons, and she did not take kindly to being shaken awake. It was an exceptionally cold morning and the fires, though they had been tended through the night, did little to warm anyone not standing directly next to them.

As she pulled on her leather breeches and boots, she thought longingly of her village further west, where they slept in sturdy huts, rather than canvas tents that hardly warded off the cold. They had been on the march for days now, with no one but Merlin knowing what exactly they were hoping to achieve. It spoke of the great trust they had in him that there had been no protests so far.

Caillean wrapped herself in her cloak and stumbled out of the tent, shooting a death glare at Cædmon, who, after shooing her out of bed, clambered onto her pallet, grinned at her broadly and burrowed under the covers that were still warm from Caillean's body heat.

A few of the people at camp were already busy making breakfast, and the scent of porridge mixed in with the smell of a snowy winter morning.  
Merlin was waiting for her at a small, separate fire. His bearded face was grim and lined, his eyes for once more tired than alert and his shoulders slumped a little, the posture of a very tired man. He did manage a small smile for her, however, and bade her sit down on the small stool opposite him. She sat, drawing her cloak tightly around herself and wedged her hands between her knees for warmth.

"The knights of the Great Wall... have rescued Guinevere," Merlin began without preamble and Caillean issued a great sigh of relief. The fate of Merlin's daughter had weighed heavily on her mind, for she had been a friend since childhood.

"Where is she?" she asked eagerly, casting a quick look around.

"They are taking her with them to the fort. She is a little unwell and they are looking after her." Something in his tone made her narrow her eyes suspiciously, but she knew better than to question him. "I met with Arthur Castus last night, Caillean. The man is a true leader."

The young woman shrugged her shoulders and wished he would tell her her part in this. Tired, hungry and cold as she was, she was in no mood for mind games.  
"I know little of Arthur but what hear told of him. If only half of that is true, then the man could command the respect of the gods themselves. But what does that have to do with me?"

Merlin's gaze came back to rest on her and he regarded her thoughtfully.  
"Ah, yes. You see, I believe Arthur to be the man destined to hold back the Saxon invasion. I will offer him our forces to do so. He will have command of our army and with his knowledge of warfare, we will cast the invaders out, for once as a united country."

Caillean's eyes grew wider the longer she listened. "A hefty charge for someone who was our enemy not three weeks ago, I think. And why would he do it? Is he not bound for home just as his knights are?"

The slow smile spreading on his lips told her that she was behaving exactly as he would have wanted her to and it did not lessen her irritation. He brushed back his cloak, as though the cold was not affecting him at all, and folded his hands on his knees.  
"Arthur is just as much Briton as he is Roman. And as for his knights... I am sure they are loyal to him. As free men, they might decide to stay with their commander after all. I will leave for Badon Fort in the afternoon and I want you and Cædmon to go with me."

She cocked an eyebrow and Merlin laughed a little, a short, rather exhausted sound.  
"We will go under flag of truce. I will talk to Arthur and with any luck, he will agree to my proposal. Why I want Cædmon with me should be obvious. You, on the other hand, have to help me keep your brother in check. I will not have his hot head and hatred of all things Roman ruin this chance for us. Besides, I thought you might like this chance to see your scout again."

"So I am to believe that you would cart me along, unqualified as I am for diplomacy, simply so I can tell my brother to calm down and to see my lover one last time?" she asked dryly. Merlin's smile faded and he straightened up, his tall, broad-shouldered frame towering over her.

"You will come with me because I command it. It is that simple!" He waved a hand at her. "And now you may leave."

Caillean got up slowly, turned away and took a few steps before looking once more over her shoulder.  
"I won't be Tristan's reason to stay, if that's what you're hoping for. He wouldn't stay and die on my behalf, and in any case, I would tell him not to!"  
He did not answer, but she hadn't expected him to.

...

It was a very bitter return to Badon Fort. Once again, they brought a brother home dead, but this was worse than any time before.  
They left behind the snow and the ice when they back south, but none of them were warmer for it. Tristan felt hollow inside. He had known that the chance of all of them surviving had been slim, very slim indeed, but never would he have expected just Dagonet to die. Not Dagonet, the healer among them, the gentle giant with the kind heart and the somber face, best friend to Bors as Bedivere had been to him.

The unease he had felt had intensified tenfold when he'd returned from his scouting trip to find that Arthur meant to relocate an entire village before the Saxons' arrival. He had seen all their fates sealed in that moment, but Dagonet's selflessness had saved them. He had given his life on that frozen lake, had helped them prevail against impossible odds. And now they bore him back home, dead, wrapped in his cloak and slung on his horse like a piece of baggage.

It was a testament to both their strength of will and their exhaustion that the damnable bishop was not immediately slaughtered as he presented them with their discharge papers directly there in the courtyard, mere moments after their return. Arthur did not stay and exchange words, he simply turned from the revolting man and left it to Lancelot to hand out the parchments bearing their release. Tristan took his and looked at it, his mind almost blank. It was supposed to be a profound feeling of relief, of delight, to once again be free and he had looked forward to it for years. But as he now held that scroll of parchment, its clean surface already marred with dirt from both Lancelot's and his fingers, he felt nothing.

They lowered Dagonet into the ground a mere few hours later, and with him they buried his freedom. It really was beyond bitter. Tristan did not stay long after they had said their farewells. The restlessness was returning and though he was bone-weary, he knew he would not be able to sleep.  
Lancelot fell into step beside him, casting one more glance backward at Arthur and the Woad woman Guinevere, whom they had rescued from the madman Marius' dungeon.

"You look about as cheerful as that graveyard," Lancelot remarked as they climbed the stairs to the Wall together and leaned against the battlement. Tristan did not bother to answer, knowing that Lancelot did not really expect him to.  
"Still," he went on, unbothered by his companion's silence, "tomorrow, as Galahad said, this will all be a bad memory. We'll finally quit this place and then may it go to the dogs, I shall not care!" His keen dark eyes regarded Tristan shrewdly. "Have you decided where you will go? My offer still stands. Unless you want to go look for your girl."

Tristan had been silent during his friend's monologue, looking out over the vast land before him instead, dipped in bronze by the rapidly setting sun. The clouds were spots of red and purple on the horizon and the sun itself was a burning circle just sinking ever lower over the edge of the world. And then his sharp eyes spied them, before even the towerguards saw anything. They came out of the forest, a white flag held aloft and lit torches in their hands. There were six of them, their skin for once not blue, but the dark markings on their faces and arms showed them clearly for what they were.

The guards spotted them a short moment later and the call quickly sounded for Arthur Castus to come to the gate.  
Lancelot and Tristan abandoned their conversation and joined their commander and the girl Guinevere in the courtyard as the gate was heaved open and the six Woads entered. The guards had formed a protective half-circle behind Arthur, keeping a close watch on the strangers.  
Tristan, however, nudged Lancelot and nodded at the one woman among them. She looked small and frail among the broad men, and she looked plain next to Guinevere's beauty, but she held her head high, her stormy grey eyes ever watchful, as they swept across the assembled people, smiling once at Guinevere and then coming to rest on Tristan. Her smile changed then, became something different, private and meaningful.

Lancelot didn't need Tristan's short mumble in his ear to know who that was.  
"No need to look for her. That there is Caillean."  
And somehow, he thought it unlikely that Tristan would be going anywhere come morning.

_...to be continued, definitely... _


	10. Chapter 10

Starcrossed

Chapter Ten

_Tristan/OC_

_Usual disclaimers apply. Please review. We are rapidly approaching the end of this story. Won't be long now. I'm currently at my sister's in Berlin, so I don't have that much time to write. I'll try not to take too long, however. :) _

More torches were brought swiftly, bathing the courtyard in soft flickering light. The knights gathered around Arthur and Guinevere, the tension in the air crackling like lightning. The Woads were unarmed, their postures relaxed and proud at once. The men kept their eyes on Arthur, only Caillean looked at Tristan, a slight smile still on her face.

Arthur stepped forward, his back straight and his broad shoulders set, his bearing that of a man born to lead. Nothing in his expression betrayed any hint of surprise or discomfort at being face to face with a man he had considered his enemy for the better part of his life.

"Merlin," he greeted the leader of the Woads evenly, ignoring the hushed whispers coursing through the steadily growing crowd at the mention of the name, "we meet again. And I see you meant what you said earlier."

"Greetings to you and your men, Arthur Castus," Merlin replied and likewise took a step forward, "I have come to discuss with you what we merely mentioned when last we spoke. As you see, we come unarmed and in peace."

Arthur's eyes roved once over Merlin's companions, taking in their empty hands, belts and their somewhat neutral expressions.

"Very well," he agreed, "we can discuss this in private. As long as your people behave peacefully, they are welcome here."

Lancelot frowned, pushed past Tristan and grabbed his commander's shoulder.  
"What's to discuss? This is not Rome's fight, Arthur. It certainly isn't yours!"

Another wave of murmurs swept across the people and many of them exchanged worried glances. They had all heard of the coming Saxon force and with the Roman soldiers and the knights gone, there was little or no resistance they would be able to offer.  
"Do not worry!" The deep, soothing timbre of Arthur's voice resonated through the courtyard and the whispering died down. "We have time... and we will think of something. Merlin..." He made an inviting gesture and then looked back at Lancelot, unmoved by the worry and anger in his friend's dark eyes. "We will talk later."

The Woad leader motioned to one of his men to follow him, a young man with startling blue eyes whom Arthur recognized as the one he had spared not long ago.  
Together, they crossed the courtyard, Guinevere following them with a self-confident air, and disappeared into the main building.

The crowd dispersed slowly and after a few moments, only the four picts, the Roman guards and the knights remained.

Lancelot shook his head and muttered darkly, "He will convince him to stay, I know he will!"

Galahad scowled grimly. "He wouldn't do that! By the gods, we've given more than enough to this place!"

Suddenly, a low female voice spoke up and all the knights, save Tristan, flinched in surprise. They had not heard her come close and turned their eyes on her, Lancelot in amusement, the others a little suspicious. She stood behind them, a slight figure in the dim light, her bony shoulders squared as best she could. Her companions watched her closely, their expressions wary, but they kept to themselves.

Tristan shook his head slightly and her eyes narrowed in defiance.  
"The boy is right," Caillean said calmly, ignoring the dark look Galahad sent her at that, "none of you have any further obligation to Britain. It is not your duty to die here."

She spoke softly, barely audible over the raucous voices of the Roman soldiers.

"And just who are you to tell us anything?" Gawain asked, folding his arms across his chest and looking down at the small female, who instinctively took a step back.  
While Gawain's tone had not been forceful, there was something in his voice that made his calmness seem more volatile than Galahad's constant growling. She held up her hands, her eyes darting once more to Tristan.

"I'm just saying... I know that Merlin wants your commander Artorius to lead our people into battle. I know he would like for all of you to stay. But none of you have a reason to!"

"Caillean!" one of the picts snapped angrily, "curb your tongue! You speak out of place!" The other two had dropped the pretense of not listening to their conversation and whispered a few harsh words, but the man brushed them off and strode over to her, grasping her arm tightly and tried to pull her away from the knights.

Within one instant, Lancelot's hand clamped onto the man's shoulder and Tristan had moved in front of Caillean, shielding her body with his.

"Let her go," he growled and let his hand drop onto the hilt of his sword in a none too subtle threat. The pict dropped Caillean's arm as though it burned him and took a step backwards. His expression changed from surprise and fright to mistrust and anger within a heartbeat.

Tristan gave him no time to voice his thoughts. He turned away from him, put his own arm around Caillean's shoulders in a possessive and protective gesture and dragged her away.

Bors, Galahad and Gawain had yet to recover the use of their faculties and trailed after them quietly. Tristan led them to the tavern's deserted courtyard and Lancelot shut the gate behind them before turning to Caillean and giving her one of his brightest smiles. The poor girl looked simply overwhelmed and a little intimidated.

"What is this, Tristan?" Galahad demanded, finally regaining his voice and immediately making use of it. He glowered at the scout, his boyish face set in lines of grim disapproval.

"What do you think?" Lancelot answered before Tristan had the chance. "It's a woman, what you have been trying and failing to get!"

Gawain snorted once, and then he and Bors started chortling. Galahad's scowl darkened. "She's a Woad," he snapped.

"A pict!" came the biting response from Caillean, who glowered up at the tall knights, one hand still clenching Tristan's tunic. The scout drew her a little closer, the pressure of his arm against her shoulders warning and calming her at the same time.

"Her name is Caillean," he said quietly, a tone of voice the others knew all too well. Tristan was seething with rage and aggravating him further would mean risking injury. "And you, Galahad, will keep your opinions to yourself!"

Lancelot disarmed the situation by smiling once more at Caillean and bowing slightly in her direction. "Welcome to Badon Fort, lady. My name is Lancelot, these men are Bors, Gawain and the skeptic here is Galahad. I'm glad to be able to put a face with the name."

The dark Sarmatian's charm once more diffused the situation and Tristan felt Caillean relax against him. Her grey eyes swept across the knights and the ghost of a smile appeared on her lips.

"I mean you no ill, sirs. I am telling you... leave here and save yourselves. Don't put yourself in danger for a country that is not yours." Her gaze sought Tristan and her tone turned beseeching. "Promise me."

Gawain cleared his throat. "Come on, Galahad... We'll see what's keeping Arthur. You too, Bors."

Bors nodded. "Right... c'mon, pup!" he told Galahad, who was still staring angrily at Tristan and Caillean.

"I'm supposed to ignore this?" he lashed out, shaking his arm out of Gawain's grasp. "When one of our own is sleeping with the enemy?"

"Enough!" Lancelot growled, stepping between them once more. "Do not judge until you understand, boy! And now we'll leave them alone!"

It was a tense moment. Galahad and Lancelot stared at each other, the youngest of the knights no match at all for Arthur's trusted second in command in this battle of wills. However, it was easier to look into his dark, fiery eyes than into Tristan's icy tawny gaze that promised trouble if he kept arguing. Finally, he relented, grumbling angrily into his beard as he turned on his heel and stalked away into the darkness. The others followed him more slowly, Lancelot left after clapping Tristan onto the shoulder once and bowing once more to Caillean, a flirtatious glint in his eyes.

Silence fell after the knights had left, a comfortable lull that allowed both of them to catch their breath and regain their calm.  
Caillean let her head sink against Tristan's chest while his arms came around her to hold her close.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, "I caused trouble for you, didn't I?"  
He shook his head. "Don't worry. Lancelot already knew and he'll keep Galahad in check. I think you caused more trouble for yourself."

She looked up at him, her eyes shimmering in the half light. Having him so close again, for what she knew would be the last time, almost strangled her and made her lungs strain to breathe. This man had become as important to her as the very air she breathed, in the mere span of a few months time.

She nestled up against him and wrapped her arms around his neck. He dipped his head down, his lips meeting hers in a kiss that was by now achingly familiar.  
His hands cupped her face, the calloused fingertips tracing the outer shell of her ears gently before drifting lower, caressing her neck and finally resting beneath her shoulders. The kiss was gentle, unhurried and tender and Caillean had silent tears streaming down her face at the end of it, tears Tristan brushed away with the pads of his thumbs.

"This time it really must be goodbye," she answered the unspoken question in his eyes, her voice cracking a little. "You have to promise me to leave with the others. I know Merlin wants you to stay and fight, but you have to make it out of here alive! Promise me! If you love me at all, you have to survive!"

He remained silent for a long moment after she had spoken, the only sounds in the air the sizzling of the torches and the distant and muffled sounds of the fortress' other inhabitants. Finally, he nodded slowly.  
"I'll leave... if you come with me."

Caillean could feel her heart clench in her chest as the urge to simply do as he asked became almost overpowering. She knew now that she loved him, knew it with every fiber of her being. Fresh tears filled her eyes as she shook her head and saw the small bitter smile curl his lips. His hands slipped from her back and she could almost see him draw the wrong conclusion from her refusal: He thought she did not love him, or at least not enough to want a future with him.

"Don't worry, Caillean," he told her, his voice neutral. "You are right. I have nothing to hold me here."

By then, she knew him well enough to know that the neutrality was in truth coldness.  
Still, if it meant that he would leave and stay alive, she could not correct him. Nor did she make a move to stop him as he turned from her and left the tavern's courtyard without speaking another word.  
After he was gone, she sank to the ground, curled up into a little ball and cried until she thought her heart would burst.

...

"The Saxons are here!"

The cry was carried through all of Badon Fort in a manner of minutes and soldiers, knights and civilians alike hurried to the Wall to catch a glimpse of the enemy. It was a sight to make many a grown man quake with fear. In the darkness, only the fires and torches shone like bright beacons in the night, not giving away just how many men had made camp outside Hadrian's Wall, but the many spots of light seemed to echo the stars in the night sky.

Merlin and Arthur had been called to the Wall together and it took the picts' leader no further words to explain or convince the knights' commander of the desperation of their circumstances.

"Knights," Arthur announced gravely, "my journey with you must end here!" He turned his back on the sight of the Saxon army, his face a mask of control and detachment. Lancelot, who knew Arthur's face better than his own, groaned in frustration and sprinted after him down the stairs and into the courtyard.

In vain, he tried to convince him that it was not his place to die for Britain, that it was not Rome's and therefore not Arthur's fight, but in the end, he could see it in his friend's clear green eyes, a message as loud and clear as if Artorius Castus had yelled it from the highest mountain. He loved this land, he had found his home here, and after Rome had betrayed him, Arthur would live and die for the only country he could call his own.

Lancelot could have screamed with rage, with disappointment and with sadness. He turned away from the hustle and bustle of the late night activity the sighting of the Saxons had stirred up and sought some peace and quiet. Without any conscious decision on the matter, his feet carried him to the stables.

Like any Sarmatian, the scent of horses, hay and leather calmed the dark knight's heart. As he passed the stalls to reach his black stallion, he suddenly stopped and stared in surprise. "What on earth are you doing here?"

Tristan was with his mare, brushing the dapple grey's pelt with long, practiced strokes. He looked up once, nodded slightly in his friend's direction, but said nothing.

"I thought you'd be with Caillean," Lancelot insisted. "We're leaving in the morning, don't you have to, I don't know, make plans?"

The scout ground his teeth slightly, the knuckles of his fingers whitened as he gripped the brush tightly.

"She's not coming with me," he pressed out between clenched teeth. Nothing about his tense posture invited further inquiries, but Lancelot had been one of the few people who had never been intimidated by Tristan's glowering. He put his hands on his hips and frowned.

"One more reason to be with her, if this is the last time you two will be together. A blind man could see that the two of you are in love."

Tristan's lips formed an even tighter line and he remained silent. After a few more moments, Lancelot gave up and continued to his own horse. He had troubles enough without borrowing someone else's.

...

It was a damp and foggy morning as the Saxons formed up outside the massive gate in Hadrian's Wall. Their battle cries resounded over the plain and served to make the blood of the civilians left behind the Wall curdle.  
The clamor drew closer, the drums started to pound and the ceaseless beat seemed like the pounding of a gigantic heart, throbbing within the monstrosity of the Saxon army.

Tristan, Lancelot and the other knights heard the commotion as they left Badon Fort via the southern gate, their little group part of a massive caravan of fugitives. The Romans were leaving, the peasants were leaving if they had somewhere to run.  
The Woads, Tristan knew, were stationed in the woods right behind the Wall, their archers waiting for the Saxons to cross through the gate. And there, up on Badon Hill, a lonely figure against the horizon, was Arthur.

He was decked out in full battle armor, his banner and the plume of his helmet blowing in the stiff breeze. His gelding, too, was clad in armor and shook his magnificent head as though eager for battle.

The sight of him alone left a foul, ashen taste in all their mouths. Bors drew his sword, spurred his horse to a gallop and saluted Arthur, yelling the Sarmatian battle cry with all his might. Arthur returned it and Bors rejoined the column. They rode on in silence for a few more moments. Their horses, picking up on their masters' distress, whinnied and bucked. Finally, Lancelot heaved a sigh and turned to his brothers, seeing the resolve he felt in his heart reflected on their faces.

Tristan met Lancelot's gaze squarely and felt a weight lift from his heart. Of course they would be going nowhere. Once more it held true that fifteen years of brotherhood could not be forgotten. Rome might hold no more sway over them, but the bonds of friendship did. They would stay and fight and, if the gods willed it, they would die with Arthur.  
This was his home and after half their lives, it was their home, too.  
One last time, he stroked the feather of his faithful hawk, who was once more perched on his arm. She looked at him with wise amber eyes and cocked her head.

"Hey," he told her softly, "you're free!" And then he cast her at the sky, followed her ascent into the clouds with his eyes.

"We are, too, aren't we..." Galahad mused, a small smile on his lips. "All of us." Gawain nodded.

"We are."

...

They prepared for battle in swift, practiced movements, gathering their armor and weapons from one of the carts and donning them in silence. Only once, Lancelot grasped Tristan's arm and leaned towards him.

"I don't know what happened between the two of you last night," he told him quietly, "but know this, and take it from someone who knows what he is talking about: the woman loves you, and you her! And I pray that you both survive this."

He did not give Tristan a chance to answer, but the scout would not have had one either way. Still, the thought stayed with him as he slipped his daggers into the many sheaths hidden about his person and strung his bow.  
If he survived, he might just see her again after all.

_...to be continued... It'll be one more chapter and the epilogue, I think._


	11. Chapter 11

Starcrossed

Chapter Eleven

_Tristan/OC_

_Usual disclaimers apply. Please review._

Tristan felt a comforting sense of calm as he brought his horse to a halt next to Bors', lined up with his brothers in this final stand against the Saxon invaders. Arthur's face betrayed no surprise as the other knights, like himself decked out in full armor, joined him atop Badon Hill, their banners flying in the wind, but a proud smile spread across his lips and there was new luster in his green eyes.

He thrust his banner into the ground and turned his white gelding to face his knights, his brothers in arms, and they could see the passion once more burning in him, the knowledge that what he did now, he did for the right reasons.  
Tristan took a deep breath and the cold air pricked his throat. His hands were steady on the reigns and on the banner he held tightly and once again, all his attention was commanded by his commander, his thoughts solely on the battle before him.

"Knights!" Arthur called out to them, his voice firm and strong, conveying confidence in the ability of his men regardless of the odds. "The gift of freedom is yours by right. But the home we seek resides not in some distant land, it's in us, and in our actions on this day!" He locked eyes with every single one of them, seeing in their eyes the same resolve he felt. "If this be our destiny, then so be it. But let history remember, that as free men, we chose to make it so! "

He drew his sword, hoisting mighty Excalibur up at the sky and yelled a battle cry which the knights joined into, their voices echoing over the smoke filled plain. They thrust their banners into the soft ground beside their horses and Tristan pulled his bow from its sheath. There, behind the curtain of soot, lay Hadrian's wall and behind it, their enemies gathered in a coiling mass. He notched an arrow, pointed it up, drew back and let fly, a Sarmatian greeting to his enemies.

Across the wall, a traitor fell dead.

...

Caillean felt sick. Cold sweat beaded on her forehead, smearing the blue paint on her skin and she shivered violently. Her clammy hands clutched each other, the knuckles were pressed to her mouth and she had her head tilted back against the tree she sat at, her only thought: _don't throw up again!_

Shame, fear and anguish were at war within her, tearing at her insides and wrenching sporadic sobs from her.  
How, by all the gods, could she have been so stupid? Yesterday, for all her grand words and ideas, life had seemed to go on forever. It had seemed noble and sensible to send Tristan away, to stay behind and fight for her country, die in the pursuit of freedom. But dying was not so easy a prospect to face when it came down to it. Right now, she would have given her left hand, or even her right one, to be safe in a wagon with Eivlin and her children, being taken to safety by someone stronger than she was.

She closed her eyes tightly, felt tears drip from her lashes and willed the world to go away. It was thus that Guinevere found her.

Her friend knelt down beside her and put a hand to Caillean's forehead, a concerned frown on her face. "Are you ill?"

Caillean shook her head and wiped her eyes, too ashamed to meet Guinevere's gaze.  
"No, not ill... merely frightened to death and sad and stupid at once. I didn't even wish Tristan farewell, Guen..." she whispered harshly, "I let him leave here thinking I didn't love him. But I do! By the gods, I do!"

Guinevere sat back on her haunches and sighed.  
"You're my friend, Caillean, and I trust that you'll keep your head when you hear this... the knights did not leave. They stayed, they are fighting with us." She motioned behind her. "We have no more time. Can you pull yourself together?"

The honest answer would have been no. Her limbs felt like brittle twigs as Caillean nodded, rose and picked up her bow and quiver. Beneath the blue paint, she was as pale as a sheet and she needed two attempts to straighten her belt, with the unfamiliar weight of a battle axe pulling at it.  
Side by side, the two women left Caillean's little refuge behind a hazel thicket and walked through the forest. There, at the edge of it, overlooking the field before the Wall, the warriors had lined up, arrows at the ready before them on the ground, bows in hand, their expressions grim and determined.

Caillean left Guinevere, who would take charge of this section of their fighting force, and lined up with the rest of them, taking her quiver down once more. There, among her own arrows, were the two Tristan had left her with and Caillean's stomach tightened further. She cast a quick look around.

The smoke from the tar-fed hay fires stung in her eyes, but at least she could make out the knights near the foot of the hill, blurry silhouettes only, but it was enough. There, a little further along, she knew her brother to be with Merlin, commanding the war machines they were setting up.  
All of a sudden, calm enveloped her. They were here now, there was no turning back and whatever end this day would bring, it was the gods' will. And Tristan was here, out of his own volition, not by Rome's command. She knew where her loved ones were and she was not alone.

Guinevere notched her first arrow as the great gate in the Wall swung open, admitting the first surge of enemies. They stumbled through, yelling their Saxon battle cries and their advance slowed as there were no immediate opponents in sight, the smoke obscuring their visions.

They drew their bows, aimed high and let fly. Before the Saxons could even raise their shields, a murderous swarm of arrows rained death down upon them, and a good number of Saxons crumbled. Then, like wraiths, the knights charged out of the black fog, their weapons flashing, slaughtering and gleaming red in the sunlight, before they disappeared back into the dimness. They were too quick for the Saxons to even strike one blow in retaliation.

Scared now, they looked around, stared into the soot-blackened air until their eyes were red and bloodshot, but there was no helping it. And there was no cover, for again it rained arrows from the sky. And again the phantom-like riders came, swept through them, leaving death in their wake, while around them, the hay fires smoked and smoldered like funeral pyres.

...

They had beaten back the first wave of attackers and it afforded them a moment to catch their breath. The hay fires would die down soon, but they had done their duty already. The air was still thick with smoke and any oncoming force would not see what lay waiting for them at first.

When the gate swung open again, Arthur led his knights past the rows of archers, passing Guinevere and giving her a firm nod. She barked a command, and a moment later, Celyn paced along the line, bearing a torch and lighting each archer's arrow aflame.

When the second part of the Saxon army burst onto the field to find their slain comrades, they shot their burning arrows, each one blazing across the sky like a shooting star. Whether they hit man or ground hardly mattered, for the oil-soaked ground burst into flame as readily as the Saxons' fur cloaks did. Screams of shock and pain echoed and Caillean could see a grim smile etched onto Guinevere's face, a smile she felt echoed on her own lips. They dropped their bows and drew their hand weapons. Caillean's fingers gripped the axe and knife tightly and she heard her brother's voice once more, his low, insistent words as he had gifted her with his weapons.

_Stay on your feet. Be quick, don't hesitate. Don't give them the opportunity to strike you, for they are stronger, but you are faster. Duck, strike, run, don't get caught up in a longer fight. _

She took another deep, bracing breath. Then Guinevere raised her arm in a triumphant salute, screamed and charged. They followed her, a blue wave of fury crashing into the stunned Saxons and cutting a deep wound into their flank.

...

More shooting stars streaked through the air as the war machines launched their flaming projectiles into the main Saxon force, creating even more panic, and the thunder of footfalls and the hoof beats of the knight's warhorses, accompanied by the insistent battle cries, did the rest. The two forces collided and chaos reigned on the battlefield.

Caillean felt feverish. She was once again afraid, but this time, instead of paralyzing her, it seemed to give her further speed. She kept close to Guinevere, flitting past the brutish men and hacking away at their arms and backs in passing. Once, she saw two knights on horses overtake her, but they were gone too quickly for her to make out who it had been. Indeed, there was no time to look around. She fought hard to stay on her feet and ducked away from any oncoming blows instead of trying to parry them, knowing full well that her skinny arms could not catch a Saxon broadsword without pain.

Still, after what felt like an eternity and was probably only half an hour, her arms trembled with exhaustion and she bled from several shallow cuts and scrapes. For a brief moment, there was no enemy in front of her and she straightened up, gasping to catch her breath and cast a quick look around. She saw Lancelot get dragged from his horse and felt a brief spell of panic as she realized that his was not the only riderless horse cantering off the battlefield. Where was...?  
Her inattentiveness almost proved fatal as a large bear of a man suddenly launched himself at her, his two-handed axe high above his head. She shrieked and fell back, raising her meager weapons on instinct, but he never got close to her. Abruptly, he stumbled and fell dead, and behind him stood Galahad, giving her a nod and a grim little smile.

With renewed vigor, she threw herself back into battle, ramming her knife deeply into the side of a Saxon who had just shrugged of Guinevere's attempt to strangle him. Together, the two women brought him down.  
Caillean attempted to follow her further but as she got back up, something slammed into the back of her skull and knocked her down. She lay in the grass and for a while, everything around her was foggy.

...

Tristan saw that he was the last of the knights still astride his horse. His quiver was empty, his bow long since discarded, the curved blade of his sword dripped blood. But there, right in front of him, he caught sight of his quarry. His fierce eyes locked with the cold blue gaze of the Saxon leader, and both men gripped their weapons more tightly.

Tristan dismounted, his movements as fluid and graceful as ever. The helmet would only limit his vision on the ground, so he cast it aside and made his way slowly towards the Saxon. Any foe that crossed his path, he cut down with swift, precise blows until they were face to face. As their blades crossed for the first time and the shriek of grating metal rang through the air, he knew he had found the only foe worthy of his skill. And perhaps even his master.

...

Caillean rolled onto her back and groaned, her blurred vision finally clearing. Right in front of her, Guinevere, now more bloody then before, got thrown to the ground by a young Saxon, his bald head gleaming with sweat and a nasty scar marring his right cheek. He grinned maliciously as he brought his sword down, but it was caught before it hit its mark, caught by the twin blades of Lancelot, who stepped over Guinevere's body and forced the Saxon backwards with swift blows.

...

Their swords flashed, met in mid air, were diverted again. Neither had yet drawn blood, but suddenly, a knife flashed in the Saxon's other hand and caught Tristan in the chest. Hot blood wet his skin. He tumbled back a few steps, his sword knocked from his hands, and eyed his opponent warily. Swiftly, he reached for one of his many hidden daggers, but the Saxon, realizing as he did, that they were a close match in skill, took a step back and kicked his sword towards him. He ducked, reached for it, and in rising lashed out already, seeking to catch his enemy off-guard.

...

Lancelot's swift handling of his twin swords looked almost like dancing. He caught his foe's sword with one weapon, turned, blocked the shield with the other and then struck him in the leg, dropping the bald man onto his knees. The Saxon had to scurry away and glowered darkly at the handsome knight who, twirling his swords once more effortlessly, answered with a cheeky grin.  
The man attacked again, knocked Lancelot off his feet, but was thrown backwards once more as the knight kicked him off him. Then, however, the Sarmatian's attention was diverted as another Saxon charged at him and Caillean, struggling to her feet once more, could see the bald man reach for something on the ground.

As he rose up again, she could see that he was clutching a crossbow – and Lancelot had his back turned. Before she could think twice about it, she flung herself at him, embedding her axe deep into his arm. Something hit her in the belly, a dull pain flared for a moment, but then Guinevere was at her side and her blade cut the Saxon's throat. She smiled at her grimly and Caillean felt a bittersweet sense of achievement.

She straightened, her eyes roving across the battlefield and suddenly, she spied Tristan in the distance. Tristan, going down before a large, blond Saxon. Her Tristan, dying.  
She cried out in horror and started to move forward, but something held her back. Her legs would not work properly, her arms suddenly felt too heavy to lift.

Lancelot turned towards her, a grateful smile on his handsome face, but his expression turned to alarm as he looked at her. Caillean followed his gaze down her front to the crossbow bolt sticking out of her. Not fired, she realized with a sort of sick amusement, for that would have killed her instantly. The swine had stabbed her with it. It was a strange sight indeed, and there was hardly any pain. Her fingers closed limply around the quarrel, then her knees gave out and Lancelot and Guinevere caught her before she hit the ground.

"Save Tristan," she breathed, her voice scarcely more than a whisper, before darkness claimed her.

...

The Saxon was too quick, even for him. He turned into Tristan's blow, was suddenly right in front of him and plunged his knife into his arm. Once more, the scout dropped his sword, fell and gasped in pain, as the Saxon plunged his sword into his side and then pushed him away violently. He tried to crawl away, put some distance between himself and the enemy, but the Saxon grasped his hair and pulled him up again. This, he knew, was the end. Above him, his hawk cried.  
He took a deep breath in anticipation of the final blow, but it never came.

Out of the dense throng of people, a horse charged at them, barreled right into them and knocked the Saxon away from the scout. Lancelot flung himself out of the saddle, his breath coming in swift and heavy gasps and his swords were a flurry of movement too quick to anticipate. He drove the leader of the enemy army backwards, until Arthur stepped between them. His face was set in fierce determination and Lancelot relented, knowing that there was no way his commander would fail him now.

He turned back to where Tristan had fallen and saw Galahad already crouched down by his side. He knelt down next to him and saw with relief that Tristan's eyes were open, his gaze a little unfocused and his lips smeared with blood.

"Lancelot... Galahad...," he mumbled, "did we...?"

Galahad nodded and roughly petted Tristan's hair with one grimy hand.  
"Aye, we won. Don't worry. We got you now, old friend."

Comforted, Tristan closed his eyes and allowed unconsciousness to dull his pain.

_...to be continued..._


	12. Chapter 12

Starcrossed

Chapter Twelve

_Tristan/OC_

_Usual disclaimers apply. Please review. And here it is. The final chapter. Thanks to everyone for reading. If you liked it, keep a lookout for my new story "Now we are home". First chapter should be up soon._

The battle was over, the Saxon invasion stopped. While the hours leading up to it had seemed to drag on forever, the time after the fight was over whirled past like hammer strokes. How could it not, though, with so much to do. The dead had to be buried, the wounded cared for, the survivors provided with shelter and nourishment. Since the Roman troops had left, their barracks stood empty and had swiftly been seized as additional quarters for the injured men and women.

The commoners at the Wall accepted the sudden presence of picts among them with quiet acquiescence and just hints of unease. But the strong hands of Merlin and Arthur kept order among their men and no problems arose.

As the moon stood high in the sky, Arthur stood in the doorway of the healing rooms and gazed at his knights, a slight, fond smile on his lips. Galahad, Lancelot and Bors had gathered around the beds of Gawain and Tristan, their voices animated but quiet, so as not do wake the scout.  
Tristan was badly hurt, but, so the surgeon Antonius had assured him, he would recover, as would Gawain, who had received a crossbow bolt in the shoulder.

Arthur's heart swelled with relief and bliss as he looked at his brothers in arms, who had chosen to stand by him in such an hour of need and had not had to pay for it with their lives.  
He felt an arm slip around his waist and looked down into the lovely face of Guinevere, who returned his calm smile. She had cleaned herself up hours ago, washed the blood and the woad off her face and had her various cuts and bruises taken care of. To him, she could not be more beautiful. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and held her close, while his gaze once more wandered over to the knights.

"How is he?" Guinevere asked quietly, her concerned eyes on Tristan telling him who she spoke of.

"He hasn't woken yet," Arthur answered, "but if he doesn't catch a fever, he should be fine. How is your friend?"

Guinevere stopped smiling and shook her head slightly. "She is weak and she has already caught a fever. We will know more on the morrow." Her smile returned lightly and she squeezed him a little around the waist, relishing the fact that he had changed his battered armor for a clean tunic and she could feel his body heat seeping into her. "For now, you should be glad that your brothers live. All of them."

...

Tristan felt warm and comfortable. He had been awake for a while now, but he did not feel like opening his eyes. The air was rich with the scent of herbs and the homely smell of a log fire. He could hear the crackling of flames in a hearth, calm, pacing footsteps and the low voices of his brothers. Lancelot and Bors were teasing each other, Galahad spoke quietly with Gawain. They had survived, then.

He lifted his eyelids a fraction to see that Gawain lay in a bed a few feet away from him, a bandage around his shoulder and his back elevated by a few cushions. Galahad sat on the corner of his bedstead, Bors and Lancelot sat on a bench near the foot of Tristan's own bed and the dark Sarmatian chuckled as Bors shoved him playfully, almost pitching him off his seat.  
Even Arthur was there, standing in the doorway with his arm around Guinevere. No one was looking directly at him. Therefore, he settled for doing what he liked to do best: silently observing the others and basking in the knowledge that his family was with him.

Something was nagging him, however, a thought teetering on the edge of awareness that would not let him rest. He shifted on his pallet and the movement made the pain, which had been but a dull, diffuse ache in his body, flare with sudden fire and wrung a groan from him.

Conversations abruptly ceased and all eyes turned to him. It took Arthur only a heartbeat to descend on him like a mother hen, the woman following close behind.  
He grasped Tristan's hand and looked at him, a happy smile erasing the worry lines on his face for the moment.

"How are you, old friend?" he asked, his deep voice low and careful.

The scout shifted again and bit back another groan. Then he shot the bandages covering his body a resentful look.

"I have been better," he answered gruffly. His head had started spinning and he felt slightly sick. Arthur, noticing the greenish hue his face had turned, sent Galahad for Antonius the surgeon and bade Bors let in some air.

The window shutters were opened to reveal cool, misty darkness outside. Sound fragments floated on the light air current, low voices, footsteps, occasional laughter and even the soft sound of singing in the distance.

The surgeon, a short, squat monk with hair like the bristles of a brush, came bustling in, felt Tristan's forehead, his pulse and then changed his bandages more efficiently than gentle. The knight said not a word during the procedure, simply allowed his eyes to drift shut again and listened to the movements of the people around him.  
Antonius left again a short while later and Tristan heard Arthur get up and walk over to Gawain to whom he started speaking quietly. The movement of the mattress signaled him that someone else had taken a seat on the edge of his bed, however, and he peered from one eye up at Lancelot.

The dark haired knight smiled down at him and something in his expression jogged Tristan's memory. He remembered the last time they had spoken before the battle and he remembered whom they had been talking about. His teeth worried his bottom lip for a moment.

"Is she alive?" he asked abruptly, his tone unnecessarily gruff. Lancelot hesitated, although he clearly understood who he meant, then he nodded slightly.

"Yes, but..."

"Good," Tristan interrupted him, closed his eyes again and turned his head away. He did not want to hear more, not yet, anyway. He was tired, his head throbbed painfully and his injuries ached. It was too early to contemplate a future he had not even been sure he'd have, much less think about some woman in said future.

But, still... the thought had been there before. He had asked her to go away with him, he had been able to picture her as the mother of his sons, he had wanted that life, even if he had not taken a long time to plan it... And the thoughts were already there, irreversible.

He groaned, opened his eyes again and met Lancelot's gaze. "But what?"

"But she is not well. They do not yet know if she will survive."

...

The little chamber was almost dark, safe for the light of the flames crackling in the little fireplace. It had been a meeting room of some sort, the table and chairs had been cleared out and a makeshift bed of hay and cushions had been set up.

There, amid a tangle of blankets, lay Caillean, her skin sallow, beads of sweat on her forehead and her clothes sticking to her damp skin. Her eyes moved wildly underneath her lids, she twitched in her sleep and now and again a moan escaped her parched looking lips.

At the foot of the narrow bed, her brother Caedmon sat, his head in his hands, the fire gone from his usually vibrant blue eyes. He looked tired and dejected as he stared at the dusty floor, but whenever he dozed off for a moment, something jerked him right awake again.

Eivlin shot him concerned looks from her perch on Caillean's bedside, where she had been sitting for hours, cooling her sister's feverish skin with wet rags, changing her bandages when necessary and dribbling mouthfuls of water down her parched throat whenever possible.

"I wish you would lie down for a while," she told him quietly. "You haven't really slept since before the battle."  
Her worry for her younger sister could not entirely quell the happiness she felt at having her brother back, having him speak to her for the first time in years, and without any malice.

Caedmon shook his head and did not look up.  
"I can't," he answered, his voice scratchy from overuse and exhaustion, "I want to be here, if..." He let his voice trail off and Eivlin nodded slightly. She knew that more than one possibility could follow that "if". ...if she should wake up... if she should die... if she should ask for me.

It seemed cruel that Caillean should be the one so badly hurt, the one possibly dying for this cause. It had been her fondest wish to see her sibling reunited once more and have a functioning family again, in a Britain free from Rome's rule. And now that those things came to pass, she might not be there to see them.  
And then there was him, of course. Since the fever had her in its grip, she had been muttering incoherent words and fragments of sentences, but one word had cropped up again and again. Tristan.

Caedmon's scowl deepened whenever he heard it, yet Eivlin couldn't help but smile faintly. Still, it had been Caedmon who had taken it upon himself to inquire after the health of the scout and it had been he who had told the unconscious Caillean that Tristan lived. Not that it had helped much.

He sighed and stretched, several joints popping in his back, and then rubbed his tired eyes.  
"Is there nothing further we can do?" he asked.

"Nothing," Eivlin said softly, "but wait."

And the night passed, dawn broke and the day took its course. Night fell again and was again expelled by day. And still they waited.

...

Caillean's first clue that she was not dead was the pain. She was not certain what might await her after death, but surely, it would not feel quite so wretched. Her head seemed as heavy as waterlogged linen, her limbs felt as though they were being weighed down with millstones. She ran her tongue across her lips tentatively and felt the dry, cracked skin, sucked the air down her parched throat and made an attempt to open her eyes. Her lids felt gummed together and it took her several tries to force them open.

The light pricked her eyes and made them water, but after squinting a little, she could make out more than just blurry shadows. What she saw made her smile.  
Her brother sat hunched in a chair, his head lolling to the side, fast asleep. Next to him, with her head leaning against his knees, was her sister, also sleeping.

The room she was in was unfamiliar to her, but from the small heap of bandages on the table and the characteristic smell of herbs, old blood and something she could not quite name, she could tell that she was in some sort of infirmary. The door to the little chamber stood ajar and there were people in the corridor, their voices animated and laughing.

A sense of peace washed over her, momentarily even drowning out the pain. It had been worth it, after all. As she tugged a little on the blankets covering her, her fingers brushed something thin and wooden. She picked it up and held it in front of her. Her mind, still lagging behind a little after the fever, took a moment to process what it meant, but then a smile of sheer utter happiness appeared on her face.

It was an arrow, a very familiar one, telling her of a special visitor. She sighed deeply and let her eyes drift shut again, still clutching the arrow tightly. Now she would really have to hurry up and get better.

...

It was days before Antonius the surgeon even allowed her to sit up, let alone try to stand on her own. Caillean took it in stride. Her siblings, delighted that she had overcome the fever, came by every day, helped her with anything she might require and brought her not only fresh clothes, food and other little knickknacks, but also news of what happened outside the house of healing.

Through them, she heard about the alliance Merlin and Arthur had forged and how it would continue on, making Arthur King of all Britain, in hopes of uniting the land under one banner, with Guinevere as his queen. They told her how life at the fortress had already changed, how former enemies now regarded each other with respect, sometimes even kindness already. Some of the knights were already training again, she heard, eager to be prepared for any further rogue Saxon raiding parties or whatever else might come their way.

And every once in a while, she would find something in her room that let her know that Tristan had been to see her, a hawk feather, for instance, yet he never came when she was awake.

During the past few days, she'd had a lot of time to consider him and her feelings for him. In truth, they hardly knew each other and what little they knew had been learned during times of war. Neither of them had ever experienced peace and thus knew nothing about how life might go on during it. But in her heart she knew that she wanted to learn it together with him, and that was enough.

...

Tristan disliked soul-searching. He felt that it served no purpose and generally did not help in any way. He was who he was, there was no changing or denying it, and whoever did not like it could go to hell, for all he cared.

Still, with the changes that were rapidly occurring around him, he had to concede to at least a small amount of contemplation about what he wanted in the future and how and where that future should take place.

Arthur asking him and the other knights to stay, now that he had truly found his calling here, had come as little surprise. He had been somewhat astonished to see how readily even Galahad and Gawain had agreed to remain here, those who had always seemed most eager to return to Sarmatia, no matter what that might entail.

But then, there was a certain joy in the air, a sense of bliss, like the coming of spring, with its promise of blossoming trees and a warmer sun. People had a spring in their step and a smile on their faces without any apparent cause, other than the fact that now there was Arthur and his vision of the future.

Tristan regarded all that merriment with a certain detached amusement. A skeptic by nature, he nonetheless believed in his commander and knew, if any man could unite this strange land and make it a country worth fighting for, it would be Arthur. He had accepted his invitation to stay therefore with little hesitation and knew that he would have a place at the court of the king-to-be.

And then, of course, there was Caillean. So far, he had put talking to her because he did not know what to say. He disliked emotional displays and could never woo a woman as Lancelot did, with words like honey, as sweet and as sticky. He knew what he wanted, and it was plain and simple. He wanted her. What he felt was not what young fools like Galahad might expect of love, certainly. He did not lie awake every night and thought of her, nor did he feel the urge to liken her skin to silk or her eyes to... whatever.

But he did want this woman by his side, he wanted her to be his. Only the words escaped him. Then again, they had never needed many words before.

...

Caillean took a deep breath of fresh air, closed her eyes and turned her face to the sun. It felt heavenly after her long confinement in the healing rooms

She stood in the courtyard of the former Roman compound, braced against a low stone wall and had a warm cloak slung tightly around her shoulders. The wound in her abdomen twinged when she moved, but otherwise she felt fine. The weakness, brought on by lying prone for days and by the fever, was now her greatest annoyance.

A fresh breeze picked up a few strands of her hair and toyed with them idly, tugged at her cloak and at the hemline of her skirt. She sighed, utterly content for the moment, and opened her eyes again.

There were children playing in the street, a few of them brandishing swords made of twigs and branches, and they were laughing and yelling about who among them would make the greatest knight someday.  
It was a very cheerful sight and it made her smile. She did not even turn as footsteps approached her, limping slightly, and a familiar scent enveloped her. Leather, horses, and something uniquely _him_. Her smile widened into a grin.

"You know, for a scout, you make an awful lot of noise," she observed and laughed.

He did not even dignify this with a response, but simply put his arm around her shoulder and, mindful of her injury, pulled her against him. They observed the children together for a while, in companionable silence.

Caillean glanced at him and something about seeing him again took an ache from her heart that she hadn't even been aware of. It felt strange, as if iron bands had been choking it and were now, finally, gone. She took in his face, ruggedly handsome, composed and serious as usual. Only in his hazel eyes that now moved to look back at her did she see that he, too, was glad to see her.

They looked into each others eyes for a long moment, before turning back to look out over the street. Tristan tightened his arm around her and nodded towards the children.

"What do you think?" he asked and the sound of his dear, gruff voice sent another chill down Caillean's spine. "Will our children be like that someday?"

_Our children._ It was a simple question, laden with so many much more difficult ones, and it made her breath catch in her throat and her eyes tear up at once.

Caillean's heart leapt with joy that he wanted to be with her, that finally that insane fantasy of a future with him would indeed be a reality. She felt as if she might scream, or cry, or dance with giddiness. Instead, she slipped her arm around his waist and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

"Sure they will."

_The End_


End file.
